What is Family?
by where's-waldo-15
Summary: Neal Caffrey is 15 and has been in and out of foster homes since he was 7. He thinks that all foster parents are terrible, but when a couple by the name of El and Peter Burke decide to adopt him, can he push his past behind him and let them into his heart? Or will he choose the life of a con with his friend Mozzie, and his new friends? rated T for a bit of language PLEASE R&R!
1. Back to the Center

It hit him faster than the strike of a cobra. The back of his foster mother's hand smacked across Neal Caffrey's face, the diamond in her ring tearing into his soft cheek. He stumbled back, holding a hand up to the bleeding cut and not saying a single word as Janice began to berate him.

"All I ask is for you to do what you're told!" she screamed at him. "You should be grateful that I took you in, you fucking little bitch! I don't need _or_ wantyour damn smart-ass comments!"

As Janice continued, Neal mentally rolled his eyes. What he'd done hadn't even been too big – his foster mother was blowing this _way _out of proportion. He'd only taken a small box of paints from a small store, but he'd taken the money from Janice's wallet. It wasn't that he was _stealing _it - when he'd showed up there a month ago, she'd taken his entire life savings – a measly four hundred dollars – and he'd been taking a little here and there to pay for art supplies. He liked to make recreations of paintings and statues and such in a warehouse a few blocks away. His friend Mozzie paid for the place so that it wouldn't look suspicious for Neal.

Neal thought of Mozzie, the man who had found him when he was five, living on the streets after his mother's death and his father's leaving. Neal had tried to pick the balding man's pocket, but Mozzie caught him. Neal remembered being terrified that Mozzie was going to turn him in to the police – what he didn't know was that Mozzie didn't trust any law enforcement. Mozzie had actually taken Neal back to Wednesday, one of his nicer safe houses, and given him something to eat. After that, Neal had been under Mozzie's wing for a while, and Mozzie taught him how to steal and pick pockets better, and had also encouraged him to continue with his artwork. Even then, it had been amazing for his age. Neal had always been good at paying attention to the details.

But then, when Neal was seven, he had slipped on ice while picking a man's pocket, and this man was actually an _undercover _police officer. The man had taken him back to the station, with the intent of helping him look for his parents, assuming he must've been lost. He'd soon figured out Neal's situation with his parents, and had handed him over to the foster care. Since then, Neal had been able to see Mozzie several times, trying to get away or forging a painting for Mozzie, but somehow he always ended up back in another foster home. Now, in eight years, he'd been in twenty-nine different homes. Sometimes it was because he ran away from the home and when found he was moved, but most times it was because the foster parents just found him too much trouble. His last foster father had found out about his thieving and had thrown him back. Since then, Neal had tried much harder keeping his art a secret.

Neal zoned back in to what Janice was saying, just in time for her to say, "You know what? I don't need this shit anymore." she grabbed him by the neck and started guiding him out the door of the apartment. Neal went along willingly, knowing exactly what was coming and not even caring anymore...

"You're going back to the center."

~WC~

_Six months earlier_

"I want a child."

Peter Burke looked up from his FBI case files at his wife, Elizabeth. He'd heard this before.

"El…" he said, not knowing how to continue.

"I know what you're going to say," Elizabeth hurried to say. "But I know that I can't give birth to someone, so what if we…I don't know…adopted someone?" she looked at her husband hopefully.

Peter blinked, a bit surprised. El had never talked about wanting to adopt before, but it made sense. She'd always wanted to raise children, have a family. She wasn't able to have children, but if she adopted someone…

Peter smiled, knowing that it would make El happy to have someone to care for, even if they weren't her biological child. "Alright, hon," he said. "Whatever makes you happy."


	2. We'll Help Him

**Thanks, y'all SOO much for the support on this story so far, I really appreciate it! I'm so glad to see that I have so many followers on only the first chapter! Also, Devoregirl brought up something interesting in a PM, and I wanted to know your guys' opinions also. She said that it was a little unrealistic that Neal would pick a pocket at age five, so maybe he should steal an apple or something instead. But then I was thinking - don't most of the kids that age in NYC without parents and a home steal food? But I want Mozzie to have been impressed with Neal so much that he took him in and helped him develop his conning skills, so...what should he do? Or should he still pick Mozzie's pocket? Please post your comment in the reviews section, and I'll change it if I see something better than the picked pocket...**

**Anyway, enough of my babbling...enjoy the chapter!**

Neal lied on his bed, trying to get just a few more minutes of sleep before he had to get up. He'd been dropped off back at the foster center the afternoon before, and as usual, the other boys his age ignored him. He liked it that way - he liked to be alone. Now, he was the only one still in his bed in the room full of twenty boys between the age of twelve and sixteen. He heard them all preparing to take showers and brush their teeth and such, but he didn't care. He could take a shower later and just be late for breakfast. Although the cooks technically weren't supposed to give him anything after the kitchen was closed, most of them pitied him, so they gave him leftovers anyway.

After another several minutes, Neal heard the boys quieting down as they went downstairs for breakfast. Sighing, Neal rolled out of bed and stood up. Rubbing his face, he went and took a shower. When he was finished, he pulled on a blue T-shirt and a pair of light wash jeans, and then combed his hair with his fingers so that it gave him a slightly rugged look without looking like he was trying. He pulled on a pair of sneakers and then walked downstairs, intending to find some food while the other boys went to the buses that would take them to school.

He heard voices as he crossed the foyer, but he ignored them.

_More potential foster parents for others, _he thought sourly, and continued on to the dining hall.

~WC~

Peter and Elizabeth were both becoming very annoyed with he woman who was supposed to be helping them.

"We were thinking we'd go for someone younger, possibly not even a year old yet." Peter had already said this several times to the woman, but she still didn't seem to hear.

"Johnny is six - he's such a darling little boy. He doesn't talk much, but he's the sweetest boy here, and he does whatever you ask him to do."

"No - we want someone _younger_," Peter argued as they walked into the foyer. He saw a teenager going through another door a ways away, but he ignored the kid, intent on making the social worker understand what he was trying to tell her.

But whatever he was about to say was cut off by a sharp cry of pain from the direction the boy had gone. Elizabeth quickly looked concerned, but the social worker only sighed and said, "Excuse me for a minute," and walked over to the door the boy had gone through.

Peter and Elizabeth followed, and when they got through the door, they saw that they were now standing in a large dining hall. The boy from before was lying in a pile of overturned chairs. A bit of blood dripped from his head and from his forearm. He looked a little disoriented as he looked up at the approaching social worker.

The woman grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. Shaking him by the shoulders, apparently not knowing that the Burkes had followed her, she hissed, "What are you up to, Caffrey? You should be in _school _right now, not screwing up a meeting with some of my clients!"

Elizabeth immediately became angry and indignant, and she quickly stepped in.

"Can't you see that he's hurt?" she said angrily to the woman, who looked surprised at El's seemingly sudden appearance. "He shouldn't be shaken when his head is bleeding - that's common knowledge! You should _know _that!"

A little abashed, the woman turned back to Neal, who only stared ahead blankly, though he listened to every word. The woman said, "Go get cleaned up - I'll have Rick drive you to school. But I _don't _want this happening again!"

Still with his blank expression, Neal wiped his clean arm against the blood on his forehead on walked away, not even acknowledging the Burkes' presence.

El watched him go, a worried and loving expression on her face.

~WC~

"His name is Neal."

Peter looked up from his dinner at El, who up until now hadn't said a word all throughout dinner.

"Hm?" he said, sounding a bit distracted.

El twirled the noodles on her plate with her fork, looking a little nervous. "That boy at the center – the one the social worker got mad at. He's fifteen."

"So?" Peter said, stabbing some noodles with his fork. "Why do you care what his name is?" he put the noodles in his mouth, chewing as he waited for his wife's response.

Elizabeth took in a deep breath and then said in a rush, "I want to adopt him."

Peter choked on his food, coughing several times before he took a long gulp from his glass of water. Setting the glass down, he said, "I thought we'd decided on someone young – under the age of three – not a _fifteen-year-old_! I don't know how to _raise_ a teenager!"

El patted his hand, trying to get him to see from her point of view. "I know, but _you _said, when I said that I wanted to adopt someone, _you _said, whatever makes me happy. Well…I want Neal."

Peter sighed with a grim sort of smile. "I did say that, didn't I?" he rubbed a hand over his face tiredly and looked up at El. "Why, exactly, do you want _him_ over someone younger?"

El sighed and looked straight at Peter. "He needs help, hon. Didn't you see the way he was being treated there? He didn't _fall _into those chairs – a boy pushed him. I saw him walk out another door when we came in. And that terrible woman – she doesn't care about him. She only wants to help the people she likes – that's why she wasn't telling us what we _wanted_. And then Neal's reaction – did you see it? It was like he didn't care, like he was completely _used_ to the bullying. And then there was that scab on his cheek. That wasn't from falling into the chairs – that was at _least_ a day old. And these younger kids – they're going to find homes faster, because most people _want _the younger kids. And Neal? Can't you see that he's just _waiting _to turn eighteen so that he can get out of there? _He _needs help, hon. And I want _him_."

Peter sighed and then slowly nodded his head. "Alright," he said. "We don't know for sure if we can _adopt _him, though. He might be one of the ones that's only up for foster care."

"Then we'll be his foster parents," El said firmly, though still hopefully. "Even if he ends up leaving, I _want_ to help him."

Peter nodded more firmly than he had before. "Alright," he said again. "Then we'll help him."

**Again, thanks so much for your support, guys! I'll update with the next chapter soon!**


	3. New Family

Neal expertly hid his confusion as he walked into the room where the man and woman were waiting. As the couple rose when he walked in, he kept his face carefully neutral, blank. He stared just over the man's shoulder, not making eye contact with anyone.

"Ah," the social worker said as Neal walked in. This one was different, Neal noticed, one of the quieter, ones. She was probably in her late twenties, and would be very pretty if she put on some make-up and wore flattering clothes.

"This is Neal Caffrey," the woman said, putting both of her hands on his shoulders in a way that made Neal feel like he was a prisoner being held back. It gave him an instant dislike for the woman, though he carefully held back the disgust building inside him every second she remained touching him.

"Neal," the worker said, "These are the Burkes - Peter and Elizabeth. They'll be your new foster parents."

After a moment with no response from Neal, the woman gave him an almost threatening sort of squeeze to his shoulders and said, "Why don't you be a gentleman and greet them?" Neal bit back a scowl and looked at the Burkes.

What Neal saw was far from what he'd expected. He recognized them from the other day, of course, but what he didn't expect was the flicker of emotions on the woman's - Elizabeth's - face. He'd expected greed, disgust, contempt, anything except for love and a little bit of sadness. Neal looked at the man - Peter - and was surprised to see the same thing. Unable to keep a straight face, his eyebrows rose and his mouth dropped open a bit for the merest fraction of a second before he carefully shielded his feelings again.

"Hello," he said, while thinking, _I'm a con artist. I can fool these people into thinking I care. _So he put out his hand, applying a charming smile to his lips while he said:

"My name's Neal."

~WC~

"This is your room, sweetie," Elizabeth said a while later. They stood at the door of Neal's room upstairs. Peter was downstairs, in the backyard, untying Satchmo, their yellow Labrador, to bring him back in.

Neal stared in at the room, at the white walls and simple bedspread. He was only just able to conceal his disappointment at the sparseness - he would've assumed that with the Burkes' attitude towards him, they would've decorated to make him feel more at home.

But then El smiled and said, "Don't worry - I don't intend to keep it this plain. I wasn't sure what you would like, so I figured some time later this week we could go shopping for some paint and other stuff to liven this place up." She put her hands on his shoulders, though, Neal noticed, it wasn't in a sort of way that made him feel like he was being held down. It was more like a careful, gentle hug.

But, ever cautious, he eased out of her touch and said, "Thanks, but I'll deal with the room myself later."

Before El could say anything, Peter came up the stairs, struggling to hold on to Satchmo's collar. Apparently Satchmo was excited about Neal's presence and was trying to get to him.

Initially Neal had decided to ignore the dog, but then he saw it and his eyes widened, his expression more alive than El had ever seen it. She knew that his charming attitude at the center was faked, but this time it definitely wasn't. Neal's eyes seemed to light up, his face seemed to glow and radiate excitement as he went past El and over to the dog.

"Mario!" he exclaimed as Satchmo finally broke free from Peter's grip and came bounding over to the teenager and licking his face, obviously already familiar with him.

Neal scratched the dog's head and ears, saying, "I thought I'd never see you again, buddy! Glad to see you found a good home."

"Mario?" Peter questioned, and he couldn't help but notice how Neal's expression closed up again when he remembered where he was.

Nevertheless, Neal nodded and responded, "He was...mine, when he was a puppy. I was ten, I found him on the street. He was the smallest in all his siblings, so he was left out of their warm circle that they were in to stay warm. It was October - almost wintertime. Their mom - she was gone. Dead, I suppose - I don't know. Mario was alone, so I took care of him for a while. Then, my..." he hesitated for a fraction of a second before he said, "Then I couldn't take care of him, so I gave him to a pet store with all the right paperwork and stuff."

"How could you have gotten paperwork if you only found him on the street?" Peter asked skeptically.

Neal ignored the question, deciding that the man probably didn't want to know what he did in his spare time. Instead, he said, "I recognized him now 'cause his ear - that one was always smaller and flopped more than the other."

El smiled. "Well, I'm glad you found your dog."

Neal's expression seemed to shutter closed even more at these words and he said, "No. I gave him up. He's _your _dog now." Then he went back in to his room. "I'm gonna go unpack my stuff."

~WC~

_"Does he know?"_

_"Of course not. It's been ten years now, and he's done nothing."_

_"Still, you can't be sure if he remembers or not."_

_"He doesn't. I know he doesn't. I've been watching him. He's a loner, boss. He keeps switching from house to house - he never stays in one place longer than about six months. He has no friends."_

_The boss became angry suddenly. "Have you even bothered to look up who his foster parents are now? Or, more specifically, his foster dad?"_

_"S-s-sorry, b-boss. N-n-n-no, I didn't."_

_"His name is Peter Burke - Special Agent for the __**FBI**__."_

_The man spat. "A Fed is involved now? This is a little to hot for my taste, boss. Why would a Fed be his foster parent?"_

_"He is doubtless looking for help." the boss said. "He obviously remembers something."_

_"Dammit. How do you want me to deal with this, boss?"_

_The boss rolled his eyes. "You've got a gun. Use it. You need to do everything in your power to make sure that Neal Caffrey does not know or tell anyone - especially a Fed - that he witnessed me killing his mother."_

**Thanks for reading! Review? ;)**


	4. Threat?

**Sorry, y'all for the long wait...I was deciding exactly how I wanted to continue, and I kept tossing out what I already had. And even now, not much happens in this chapter - it's really mostly just Neal getting a bit more acquainted with the Burkes...but I'm laying the foundation for future chapter. ;) You'll all thank me later... **

**Enjoy!**

**~WC~**

When El walked in to Neal's room to get him for dinner, she found him sitting on his bed, staring at the wall with a contemplative look on his face. He didn't look up when she came in, though she noticed that his expression clouded again into blankness. She didn't comment on it though, as she went and sat beside him on the bed.

"Thinking about how to decorate?" she said with a smile.

Neal shrugged noncommitally. "There's not enough space for me to do what I want."

"And what is it that you want?" El asked him gently.

Neal decided not to tell her that he'd meant it more metaphorically than anything and simply said, "It doesn't matter now, does it? What's the point in wishing for something you know you can't have?"

El caught the double meaning behind his words and her heart clenched with pain for him. After a moment, she said, "Dinner's ready, Neal. Come down whenever you're ready."

~WC~

Dinner was a slightly awkward affair that night. El and Peter tried to get Neal to open up a bit more, chatting and asking him questions, but Neal mostly answered with grunts or one-worded responses. This didn't discourage El in the slightest, though, as she continued talking about various things such as sports or weather. These things didn't seem to interest Neal in the slightest, and both Peter and El noticed.

Finally El stopped and said, "So what _do _you like to do?"

Neal shrugged, picking at a piece of chicken. El and Peter looked at each other, and then Peter smiled and leaned back.

"All right, I see what you're doing here," Peter said, and Neal glanced up, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Peter continued, "You want us to guess." and Neal's eyes went down again and he adopted the same blank expression as before.

But, undeterred, Peter pushed, "Hmm...long fingers, no callouses. I'm guessing...music? Maybe piano?"

Neal shook his head minutely and put a bite of chicken in his mouth, staring at his plate.

"All right..." Peter said, "You're an artist?"

At this Neal had no answer, though Peter noticed that Neal's eyes widened a fraction of a millimeter in surprise. Peter knew that he had guessed correctly.

"What art do you like, Neal?" El said with a smile. "Drawing? Painting? Sculpting? Carving?"

Neal mumbled something, but it was so quiet that El asked him to repeat what he'd said.

"Everything," Neal said a bit louder.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "_Everything_? You like _all _forms of art? Which are you best at?"

Neal lifted a shoulder. "I dunno," he said. "I mostly get rid of my art – I don't think it's ever been compared before." A corner of his mouth lifted at the thought of the Burkes finding out that what he was really good at were forgeries. Boy, wouldn't he be back at the center like _that_. He opened his mouth to tell them just what he was interested in, but something made him pause. The Burkes were different, he could see that. Maybe they would be worth something to him. He'd wait to tell them.

Just then, a cell phone rang. El and Peter checked their phones, thinking it was theirs, but theirs were both silent. Then the noise stopped, and they looked up to see Neal putting his cell phone back in his pocket. He didn't say a word to them, so El asked who it was that was calling him, and if it was important.

"Nah," Neal said, and Peter noticed that the lower half of his body was fidgeting a bit nervously. "It's no one. I can call him back later."

Peter tilted his head and studied Neal, the FBI agent in him noticing something. Neal was hiding something – he was sure of it. But what? What wasn't Neal telling them?

~WC~

Neal softly closed his bedroom door and pulled out his phone, redialing the last number called.

"Neal," the voice at the other end said.

"Mozzie, what's wrong?" Neal whispered, trying not to alert the Burkes. "Why are you calling so soon?"

"I looked up the Burkes – it took some digging, but I finally found them."

"Yeah? What'd you find?" Neal asked, not really caring about the answer but simply humoring his best friend.

Mozzie seemed to hesitate a moment before he said, "Neal, Peter's a Fed."

Neal blinked. "He's _what_?"

"He's in the FBI, Neal." Mozzie repeated. "I couldn't dig up what division he worked in, but he could be trouble for me _and _you."

Neal rubbed a hand over his face and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Damn," he whispered to himself, but Mozzie heard it anyway.

"What do you want me to do, Neal?" Mozzie asked him. "I can get you out and we can leave the country – go to Denmark, maybe."

"Denmark?"

"Or the Virgin Islands. I hear they're lovely."

"Let's wait," Neal said. "Just a little bit. These people…they're different, Moz."

"Different," Mozzie echoed. "So their striking hand is their right instead of their left?"

Neal colored a little, but he said anyway, "No. They don't _have _a…'striking hand', at least as far as I can tell so far. They seem like…decent people. I guess I'm just…curious."

"Are you alright, Neal? You're not feeling sick or anything?"

"I'm fine, Moz," Neal said, scoffing and rolling his eyes. "I'll leave later – I can always leave, at any time."

"Meanwhile, you should look into the Suit a bit more – see if he'll be a threat."

Neal nodded. "Can do. I'll talk to you later, Moz."

"Bye, Neal."

~WC~

**Review? Por favor? ;)**


	5. The First Morning

**Okay, sorry this chapter again took a bit longer than expected, but it was worth it! Don't you think so? Also, I got a comment from someone who said that the foster system in the U.S. must be bad, because that's what she's always seen on TV and read in books and stuff. I just wanted to clear up any blurred lines and opinions that anyone had...**

**As far as I can tell, the foster system helps a lot of people. Usually the kids in the system go to great families, and all of the foster kids I know ****_love _****their foster parents. But the reason it's mostly viewed as bad is because of the several cases where siblings are split up, or the parents only want to care for the kids for the money they receive from the government, and that's really the ones that catch other peoples' attention. So, no, overall the system is good, but it's the bad cases that people write about or show on TV.**

**Just wanted to clear the air about on that concern/confusion, so now...here's the next chapter! Enjoy!**

Neal lied in his bed that night, staring up at the ceiling as he battled with his conflicting emotions.

It could be dangerous for him to stay with the Burkes - he knew that. They could find out at any moment who he was and what he did for money - to survive, really. But...he'd never been in a house where the people cared about him...for _him_. Not the money, or greed, but they seemed to honestly...care.

He knew, of course, that they might just be giving him a false sense of security before they showed their true selves, but he was going to enjoy the kindness while it lasted.

~WC~

Neal's eyes popped open and he sat up in bed quickly, glancing around the room. For a moment, he didn't recognize where he was, and then everything came flooding back to him in a rush. The Burkes. They were his most recent foster parents. It was morning now, and when he glanced at the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand, he saw that it was six o' clock. He sighed and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He always had nightmares the first night he was in a new house, though when he woke up, he could never remember what they had been about.

Neal got up and took a shower, and then pulled on some jeans and a blue T-shirt, combing his hair until it was dry and tousled about his forehead.

Once he was finished, Neal walked out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen to grab something to eat before the Burkes woke up.

But when he went in to the kitchen, he was surprised to see that they were already up. El was making breakfast over at the counter by the stove, and Peter was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and saying something about the coffee at "the office".

El looked up when she heard Neal enter, and her face broke into a smile.

"Morning, Neal," she said. "Do you like waffles?"

Neal nodded silently.

"Good," El said nicely, and turned back to the counter, where she opened the top of the waffle iron. "Because I'm making some. Do want blueberries in yours?"

"I'm allergic to blueberries." Neal stated bluntly.

"Alright...how about strawberries?"

"Sure," Neal answered, and sat down sideways in a chair at the table, across from Peter. He watched as El went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of strawberries, and then went and put another waffle on the grill.

"So, Neal," Peter said, having remained silent until now ever since Neal had come in, "Did you sleep alright?"

Neal shrugged in response.

Neal noticed the look that El and Peter shared, though he was at a loss as to what it meant, so he remained silent as Peter said, "Well, that's good. Got any ideas for decorating your room? I figure you could get the stuff for it today with El, and since tomorrow's Saturday and I've got the day off work, we can decorate it together then."

Neal shrugged again, though this time he seemed to look at Peter for a moment before he looked away again.

"Neal, how many waffles would you like?" El asked from the kitchen.

It might have been simply Peter's imagination, but Neal seemed to look startled for a moment before he answered, "One is fine."

For the next few minutes, it was mostly quiet as Peter sipped his coffee and looked over the sports section of the newspaper, El cooked up the waffles, and Neal simply watched the both of them.

Then Neal said, "Mr. Burke?"

Peter looked up and smiled at Neal, saying, "You can just call me Peter, Neal."

Neal tried it. "Peter..." The familiarity seemed strange, having only known him for less than twenty-four hours, but he pushed on anyway, "What division of the FBI do you work for?"

Peter was so surprised that Neal showed an interest in him that for a moment, he didn't stop to wonder how Neal knew he was an agent. "White Collar division," he said, a trace of pride in his voice. "Way up on the 21st floor of the FBI office building."

"What cases does the White Collar division deal with?" Neal asked as El placed a waffle in front of him.

Peter shrugged. "Theft. Fraud. Forgeries."

"What kind of forgeries?" Neal's heart began to pound faster in panic, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

Peter shrugged again. "Money, bonds, paintings…anything, really. Why?"

Neal shrugged. "Curious." He said shortly, and he thought that was the end of it, but then Peter asked:

"How'd you know I was an agent?"

Neal thought fast, and then said, "You have a picture of you and your wife in the stairway. You're wearing the ring that every agent gets after ten years of working for the Feds."

Peter nodded. "Ah," he said, and then checked his watch. "Well, I've got to get to work now. I have to be there by seven-thirty." He stood up and kissed El. "Bye, hon." He said, and then stood awkwardly for a moment before he patted Neal's shoulder. Neal tried not to shy away from the touch.

"Bye, Neal." he said. "We'll work on your room tomorrow."

Neal hardly gave him a nod, and after a moment, Peter left.


	6. For Good

As promised, El and Neal went to the Home Depot and picked out some paint. Neal wouldn't tell El what he wanted, but he picked out several different colors in the pint-sized cans, and for some of the colors he got three or four. Apparently he had something planned, but he didn't care to tell El about it. She didn't know what he could do with black, white, red, yellow, and blue, but she didn't want to pressure him too much, so she remained silent about it. Then they got a package of paint brushes and a couple of rollers, though Neal didn't tell her not to bother with the rollers. He could return them later.

Then El had to run a few errands, so they went grocery shopping for a couple of hours before they went to lunch. After lunch, they enrolled him at the high school – he was going to start the next Monday – and then they went home.

Neal carried the paint supplies up to his room, and then he came down to the kitchen – per El's request – and helped her make dinner so that it would be ready by the time Peter came home.

That night, after they had all gone to bed, Neal lied staring up at the ceiling again. He looked at the alarm clock – it was ten-thirty. He fidgeted, unable to get to sleep. He was too awake to even think about sleeping right now.

So, making a decision, he silently got out of bed, glad that the bed didn't creak, and went to the door, opening it and going out to the hallway. He went to the Burkes' bedroom – both were sound asleep. So he went back to his room, closing the door silently behind him.

A couple of minutes later, Neal relaxed as his paintbrush went up and down one of the walls in his room, the one with the door. Pictures seemed to float out beneath his fingertips, and he felt peaceful. _This _was his element, his passion. He could do this forever.

~WC~

El looked up from making breakfast as Peter entered the kitchen, looking sleepy.

"Hey, hon," she said, pecking him on the lips as he bent down to her level. "Do you know if Neal is awake yet? I haven't heard him all morning."

"I'll go check on him," Peter said as he went back up the stairs. He rubbed his eyes as he walked down the hall to Neal's room. He had slept soundly through the night, so he couldn't understand why he was so tired, but it was nine o' clock now, so he figured he should get up to help Neal with painting his room.

Peter soundlessly opened the door to Neal's room and peeked in at the bed where Neal was supposed to have been sleeping. He was a bit confused when he saw that the bed was empty, and he opened the door wider. Then his eyes traveled downward and he saw Neal on the ground, sleeping on his side with his face toward the door. He looked peaceful, content, without the indifferent façade that Peter knew that Neal always kept up for others' benefit. He was only in blue plaid pajama pants, and his bare torso looked pale and thin. He noticed a raised white scar across Neal's collarbone, and briefly wondered how and when he'd gotten it – it looked years old.

Then he saw that several paintbrushes lied on the ground next to him, of all different sizes, and clearly used. The cans of paint sat, opened and used, over on the drop cloth. A couple of them were empty.

Still a bit confused, Peter looked at the blank white walls – that is, until he saw the wall with the door, completely covered in Neal's art.

Peter was caught breathless with amazement at the scene that Neal had painted. _The kid's sure got talent, _he thought as he stepped in a bit farther and examined the wall.

Describing it, he couldn't tell someone exactly what it was – rather, it was a blending and mixture of different scenes. On one side, he could see the silhouette of a wolf of some sort stalking out of a forest toward a rabbit in a hole, and on the other side of the forest was a grassy meadow where a little boy played with flowers, while below the meadow, seemingly underground, was the New York skyline, the blue-black sky in the background dotted with tiny stars. The moon was round and white and shone brightly on a couple miles away, and beyond the city was a nice little suburban house with flowers growing out front. There were also a few faces of people that Peter didn't recognize, seemingly shouting or singing at something or someone. There were so many images and colors – apparently Neal had mixed different paints for variety – that Peter felt almost overwhelmed. He didn't know how Neal could have done all of this, so professional-looking, overnight – for when else could he have done it?

Even now, Peter noticed a few flecks of blue paint on Neal's chest, and a dot of brown on his jaw line. He smiled softly, glad to see that Neal was so…comfortable.

Then he turned, and shut the door silently behind him.

~WC~

_He sat up in the tree outside the boy's window, a scope camera in his hand. He snapped a few pictures of the boy lying on the ground of the bedroom, apparently asleep. When the other man – Agent Burke, apparently – came in, he snapped a couple of pictures of him, too. _

_He saw Burke turn to look at the wall behind him, apparently surprised by what he saw. With the camera still up to his eye, he scanned the wall for what had surprised the agent._

_Oh. It was just more of the boy's paintings. The boy was pretty talented, and he knew of his job as an art forger on the street. He was pretty good. A couple of his works had been examined by experts, and many of those experts believed them to be the real piece. He could believe it. He got the brushstrokes down to perfection, and he no doubt had a friend who helped him with the aging process. He was only fifteen – how else could he get those done to such perfection that –_

_Then the man gasped and lost his balance, almost falling out of the tree. He quickly raised the camera back to his eye to confirm what he'd seen. Grimly, he took several pictures of what Neal had painted in that dark corner, over by the wolf. To an eye that wasn't looking for something like it, no one would be able to catch it._

_But he did. And because of what he saw, he knew that Neal Caffrey had to be put away. For good._


	7. Sleepwalking? Really?

**Alright, so for this chapter, I have four very important people to thank who helped me with it through (PM)s, and you should all really thank them for this, because without them, it would've been several more days before I got this chapter up! So, thank you SO MUCH to…**

**TheGirlWhoDreamsWhileAwake**

**GayAsKurtHummel**

**Devoregirl**

**Samie Goode**

**They ALL provided great ideas, and a couple of the ideas that they gave aren't in this chapter, but they will most likely be in a future chapter, so not to worry, guys! I take ALL suggestions and insights into account, and I'll usually try and get EVERY suggestion into the fic at some point or another…**

**So this chapter is pretty much dedicated to these four insightful authors…thank you, guys! And enjoy the chapter! ;)**

**~WC~**

When Neal went in to the kitchen a few hours later, he saw that the Burkes were gone. The house was silent.

Scratch that. He could hear Mario's – _Satchmo's _– nails clacking against the wood floor as he came in with a happy bark to Neal. Neal smiled down at the dog and knelt down, scratching his ears.

"Hey, Mario," he said softly, as though afraid someone would hear him. The dog panted, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a too-familiar way. "You hungry?"

The dog yipped, and Neal stood up, going to the fridge. He paused, seeing a note sticking there. He pulled it off and read it.

_Neal-_

_Sorry we weren't here when you woke up and came downstairs, but Peter had to go to the office to help with something for one of his agents. I'm going to the grocery store to pick up a few things for Mrs. Perry down the street because she just hurt her wrist and can't make dinner. I should be back around noon, but Peter should be here before me. If you need anything, mine and Peter's cell numbers are taped to the side of the fridge. Help yourself to anything in the fridge or the pantry. I'll see you in a bit. J_

_Love,_

_El_

Neal glanced at the clock over the stove and saw that it was ten-thirty. No wonder he was so hungry. Satchmo gave a soft yip, reminding him he was there, so Neal opened the fridge, looking for something to feed both of them. He found a leftover casserole and took it out, eating half of it cold and giving the other half to Satch. He washed out the dish and tried looking for the cabinet where it was supposed to be put away, but he couldn't find it, so he simply set it down on the counter and went in to the living room, sitting down on the couch and resting his neck on the back.

A little while later, Neal's eyes snapped open when he heard a soft knocking at the door. He looked at the clock and saw that it was a little past eleven-thirty, and realized that he must've fallen asleep. A bit blearily, he stumbled to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he went to answer the door.

When he opened the door, he found a man there in a UPS uniform and holding a clipboard in one hand and a box about the size of a shoebox in the other. He was probably about forty years old with closely-cropped brown hair and probing brown eyes. There seemed something vaguely familiar about him to Neal, but he was sure he'd never seen the man before.

The man gave him a smile and said, "Hey, kid. Are your parents home?"

There seemed to be something slightly off about this man, so Neal simply said, "They're busy upstairs."

"Well, I need a Peter or Elizabeth Burke to sign for this package," the man said, staring at Neal in a way that made him slightly uneasy. "You think you could get one of them?"

The phone in the kitchen started ringing, so Neal said, "I've gotta get that. I'll be right back."

"I need this signed, Caffrey. Could you get one of your parents _now_?"

Neal paused in turning, forgetting the ringing phone for a moment. He stared at the man and said slowly, deliberately, "How did you know my last name was Caffrey?"

Before the man could react, the phone stopped ringing, going to voicemail, and then El's voice rang through the house.

_"Hey, Neal. I just called to check up on you, but I guess you're still asleep. I'm going to take a bit longer than expected - I have to go to another store for noodles, because the brand I normally use is out over here. Anyway, I'll see you in a couple of hours. Bye."_

At these words, the man's face seemed to transform into something much more menacing as he realized that Neal was home _alone_.

"Busy upstairs, huh?" he said sarcastically, taking a step closer.

Neal quickly tried to close the door, but the man pushed against it with the palm of his hand, pushing it open even farther. So Neal tried to dash up the stairs, but even that was futile. The man dropped the package and the clipboard and grabbed Neal's hair, yanking back so that Neal stumbled right into him. He closed the front door behind him and said to Neal:

"Where do you think you're goin'?" his voice now seemed to have a slight Cockney accent to it.

Neal gasped as the man yanked his hair again to bring him up and pain radiated again through his scalp.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, unable to hide the growing fear in his voice.

The man pulled Neal up so that he was face-to-face with him and said, "Honestly? I just want you out of my life so that I can just forget about you."

Before Neal could respond, the man slammed him down onto the stairs with a force that made Neal see stars. He winced as the stairs dug into his back and the side of his head bounced on the edge of one of the stairs.

"_Out of your life_?" Neal said incredulously, his words a bit slurred. "Who _are _you?"

The man didn't respond, simply grabbing his hair again. Neal was so dazed he didn't even fight back as the man banged his head on the stairs once, twice, three times before he finally let go. Neal let his head loll back, resting against the stairs as he fought to remain conscious. Black was already swirling against his vision, and he was feeling sick, but he fought through the nausea.

_Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake, _he chanted mentally.

Then, suddenly, the doorbell rang, and the man paused in his attacks.

"Stay quiet, or I'll kill whoever's at the door, too."

_He wants to kill me, _Neal thought as the man turned away from him to answer the door. And somehow, this gave him enough strength to get to his feet and go silently up the stairs. He had to get the extension in the Burkes' room - he had to call someone.

But just as he reached the top of the stairs, the man turned to check on him and saw that he was gone. Without a word to alert the person at the door, he ran up the stairs. And Neal, though stronger than before, was still disoriented, and knew that he couldn't make it to the Burkes' room in time. His room was just around the corner - he'd go there.

So he ran to his room as fast as his legs would carry him, which, in his condition, was about twice as slow as the other man's. Just as he stepped foot in the room, he felt his hair yanked _again_, and he fell back to the ground. The man kicked his side sharply, and Neal rolled himself into the room farther, not fully realizing that he was doing so. He stopped once he was in the middle of the room, and got up on his hands and knees. Trying to regain his bearings, he took a deep breath.

"You've got nerve, I'll give ya that," he heard the man say as though from a distance. "But you're still a son of a bitch."

And then something came down hard on his back, and his elbows and knees buckled. He fell hard on the ground, and felt his nose slam into the hard wood floor, blood beginning to gush out. Still, he remained consciousness, and heard something bang into metal. He felt something cold and wet pool at his head and briefly wondered what it was as he distantly heard the man swear several times. He tried to turn his face toward the sound, but he was just so tired that he couldn't. He just wanted to go to sleep...his eyelids were already pulling themselves down over his eyes. He knew he shouldn't go to sleep, he couldn't, he wouldn't...

Something sharp kicked him again against his ribs, and Neal fought to stay awake.

~WC~

Peter pulled his car up to his town house, sighing. Neal was probably upset that he hadn't been there to help him paint the rest of the room, but Jones had absolutely needed his help, and it hadn't looked like he was going to wake up any time soon, so he'd decided to go. But he hadn't expected it to last so long. Now it was a little after noon.

Maybe Neal had begun to paint the rest of the room like how he'd painted the other wall. That was good, he supposed, but it was a little difficult to accept someone into his home that wasn't accepting _him_. And he knew that that was part of the reason that Neal had painted that wall - while Peter was asleep. It might as well have been a clear message to him saying, I DON'T WANT OR NEED YOUR HELP SO GET OFF MY ASS WITH THE FATHER-SON ACT.

Peter sighed and shut off the car, pausing a moment as he thought about what to say to Neal - how to apologize. Then, after a few minutes of not coming up with anything, he sighed again and got out of the car, locking the door behind him. He found a manila envelope under the doormat on the porch, and pulled it out. He saw that there was a note on the front that said "Peter Burke" in a quick scrawl.

Curiosity piqued, Peter opened up the folded lined paper to read what was inside.

_Boss – _

_Sorry I couldn't give this to you in person, but when I dropped by, no one answered, and I was in a hurry. These are the stills that you asked for from the surveillance videos from the bank from the James Bonds case. It doesn't look like there are any clues here, but maybe you'll pick up something that none of us did. I'll see you Monday at work unless you need my help._

_– Diana_

Peter smiled and tucked the folder under his arm, pulling out his phone to text Diana.

_Thanks. I just got the surveillance pics. Have fun with Christie. J_

After the message was sent, Peter pulled out his key and unlocked the front door, locking it again behind him.

"I'm home, Neal!" he called, setting his keys down on the coffee table and using his toes to push his shoes off. "Is El home yet?"

He heard a bit of movement upstairs and what sounded like a window opening, but no response from Neal. Sighing, Peter went to the stairs. Really, the kid was –

Then he saw a small pool of red liquid on one of the lower stairs. "Neal," he called up as he began to walk to Neal's room, "You spilled some of your paint on the…stairs."

He had reached Neal's room, and for a moment, he was confused. Neal was lying, face-down on the ground with blue paint pooled at his hair, matting it as the paint dried. Some red paint was mixed with the blue near his temple, making a bit of a purple-ish color that dripped down his neck. His T-shirt was splattered with blue and red. All over the ground was other paint, blue and red alike. There was a particularly large pool of red paint near Neal's head.

_That's not paint, _Peter realized suddenly.

In an instant, Peter was over next to Neal, not caring about kneeling in the paint and blood. He carefully rolled Neal over, and saw that Neal was still conscious, eyes wandering about aimlessly, fearfully. His eyes finally settled on Peter, and for a moment, panic flashed across his features before he realized that it was Peter. In an instant, he relaxed.

"God, Neal," Peter breathed. "What the _hell _happened?"

Neal's eyes fluttered, but it was clear that he was fighting to stay awake. After a moment, he mumbled, "Musta' been…sleepwalking."

_Sleepwalking? My ass. _Peter thought, and noticed that Neal's eyelids were drooping more than before.

"Neal. Buddy," Peter said, worry rising inside of him even faster than before. "I need you to stay awake for me." He fumbled to get his cell phone out of his jacket, fingers quickly dialing 9-1-1. "Cowboy up, Neal! _Please_ stay awake…"

But it was too late, because Neal had already yielded to unconsciousness.

**~WC~**

**So...yes, this chapter took FOREVER, but I made up for it, didn't I? It was a longer chapter than I normally have, for ANY of my fics...so...review? Please? :)**

**Thanks,**

**where's-waldo-15**


	8. New Girl, New Hat

**Hey, guys! Thanks SO much for all of the reviews and encouragement – it really helped me get this chapter up sooner! And I'm super excited for this chapter, because a certain someone I love is introduced in here…read it and see who it is! Enjoy! ;)**

"I'm fine - really," Neal insisted as he got out of the car Tuesday morning. Peter had driven him to the high school to make sure that he got there okay, and Neal was getting a little annoyed by his and Mrs. Burke's constant worry. He could hardly do anything without either of them checking up on him to make sure he wasn't going to pass out.

Though, at the same time, he felt touched, grateful for their attention. It was a strange feeling - being cared for and cared about.

But that didn't mean he had to show it.

"Really, you can stop worrying about me. I've been out of the hospital for more than a day, and I'm not going to pass out as I walk to Zoology."

Peter sighed and nodded, hesitantly placing his hand on Neal's shoulder. "I know, just…be careful. Okay, bud?"

Neal nodded, a warm feeling opening in his chest. He mentally shoved it back down as he eased out of Peter's touch. "Yeah, yeah – okay." He said impatiently. "I'll see you later."

Then, without another word, Neal walked off.

~WC~

As soon as Neal was out of Peter's sight, he went to the nearest restroom. There wasn't anyone in there, so he quickly removed the bandage wrapped around his forehead. He touched the now stitched-up gash on his forehead and winced. These stitches wouldn't be gone for a while, and it would be a sure testament to everyone that he'd gotten in a fight, no matter what the truth was. And that would be a _great _start to his image here. But what else could he do about it?

"That looks pretty bad."

Startled, Neal whirled around and came face-to-face with a girl probably about his age with long honey-colored hair and tanned skin. She was in one of the stalls, and had a laptop on her lap. She was using the toilet seat to sit, her ankles crossed and propped up on the toilet paper dispenser.

"This is the guys' bathroom." Neal pointed out.

The girl shrugged carelessly. "Your point?"

Neal stared at her for a moment, and then relaxed. "Oh. You came in here for the Wi-Fi signal."

The girl nodded and closed the laptop, bringing her feet down and standing up. "Yeah," she said, coming out of the stall. "I'm Alex Hunter. You?"

"Neal. Caffrey." Neal said simply.

The girl –Alex – shoved her laptop in her black backpack, zipping it closed and setting it on the counter and then coming close to him, though not in a way that was awkward or uncomfortable.

"Who the _hell _did that to you?" Alex demanded after a moment, pulling back.

Neal stared at her. "I was sleepwalking. I fell down the stairs."

She rolled her eyes with a scoff. "Bullshit. What _jackass_ banged your head on the edge of a stair step?!"

"How did you know that?" Neal asked her, confused and amazed.

"Never mind that," Alex said. "_Who_ did this?"

Neal sighed, realizing that it was pretty much pointless spouting off a half-assed story to this obviously very bright girl. "I really don't know. All I know is that I was attacked at the house while the Burkes were gone. I woke up in the hospital."

"You're a foster kid?"

"What?" Neal was confused how she had reached this conclusion so soon.

"'The house', 'the Burkes'…you're in the system?"

Neal shrugged. "Yeah."

"And apparently your head was hit too much, so you forgot," Alex said.

Neal sighed. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Neal noticed that Alex's expression seemed to close for a moment, and then Alex said, "I don't know." She unzipped the small pocket in her backpack and pulled out a foundation compact and a makeup sponge, swiping the sponge over the foundation.

"What are you doing?" Neal asked her as she reached up to his forehead.

"It's obvious that you want it covered up," she said, reaching forward again and swiping the makeup over the redness around the gash. "This'll help."

After a minute, Alex put her makeup away with a frown. "Well, the make-up isn't going to help much this soon – you can still see the stitches." With a sigh, she removed the dark grey fedora from her head and put on Neal's head, tilting it a little to cover up the gash.

"There," she said with satisfaction.

"You're giving me your hat?" Neal was dumbfounded by the kindness that the girl he'd just met had shown him.

Alex waved a hand carelessly. "I have tons of 'em. You're welcome."

Neal looked at it in the mirror and decided he liked the look on himself. Then, noticing something, he turned back to her. "It's a men's hat."

With a grin, Alex slung the strap of her backpack over her shoulder. "Yep. Let's just say I like wearing guy's clothes."

It took a moment for Neal to get it, and then he smiled in understanding. As he watched Alex Hunter breeze out the door, he knew that the two of them were going to be great friends.

**~WC~**

**So, nice Thanksgiving treat? I thought so. ;) And, because it's Thanksgiving, I just wanted to say that I am VERY grateful to all of you for your encouragement with this, and I'm very grateful for Jeff Eastin and all of the people who helped White Collar come alive! Without them, we wouldn't have all gathered on this website as a sort of family and shared our imaginations with each other! So thank you!**


	9. Peter's Flashbacks

**Alright, so lots of people said that they would've wanted more about Neal's attack and Peter's thoughts and the hospital trip and all of that stuff. Not to worry, I will most likely have a few flashbacks on Peter and Neal's parts, but I'm just not a huge fan of the fics that half of it happens in a hospital room, so I just wanted to skip over that part…no offense to those writers that like to write those kinds of fics – I still totally encourage you to do what you want! I just don't like to write that kind of stuff ****_myself _****because honestly, it makes me depressed to have Neal totally helpless and hooked up to a bunch of wires and tubes…but you ****_will_**** receive more information about what happened!**

**Also, what other characters do you want to see? I'm kinda thinking about bringing in a few of Neal's old friends, maybe Kate or Sara, or what the hell – I could even bring in Wilkes or Keller. I don't know…review or PM me to let me know! Also, when you give a suggestion, let me know if you want them to be an antagonist or a friend of Neal's, because honestly, anything could happen!**

**~WC~**

Peter drove home from the school, thinking about Neal, as he had been doing nonstop for the past several days.

Neal had insisted that he didn't remember anything; he must've been sleepwalking. But Peter didn't believe that. And he knew that Neal didn't believe that either. He wasn't sure that Neal hadn't forgotten what had happened, but he _was _sure that Neal at least had an inkling of what had happened.

Somebody had attacked him, pure and simple. Peter clenched his hands on the steering wheel as he wondered what _bastard _could've done that to Neal, and why. Honestly, how could anyone hate that boy, with his bright blue eyes that any girl would fall for? He just looked so…so _innocent_, like he could do no wrong.

Peter breathed in deeply to try and calm himself as his mind flashed back to when the ambulance had gotten there. He'd been allowed to ride in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and then after about an hour of being checked out, the doctor had come out to tell Peter that Neal had a concussion and a few wounds that would need to be stitched up, but there were no broken bones, just some major bruising and a sprained right wrist. He'd had a bit of internal bleeding, but they'd been able to get it under control before it got too out of hand.

_"I'm quite surprised that he remained conscious for so long," _the doctor had told him. _"If he hadn't had that much willpower to stay awake, we would probably be having a very different conversation right now, Mr. Burke. Studies have shown that people who stay conscious that long only stay that strong because they have something – some thought, memory, or person even – that anchors them. He'll be just fine."_

Peter thought about that – what had Neal anchored himself to? Neal hadn't told him when they were at the hospital. He let out a shaky sigh as he remembered when Neal had woken up in the hospital room. Peter had only been in there for ten or fifteen minutes when Neal had opened his eyes.

_"Hey, kiddo," Peter said, taking Neal's uninjured left hand. Neal tensed a little, but then he relaxed._

_"Hey," he said, his voice a little scratchy. He coughed, and then winced a little when he felt the bruising in his ribs._

_"How're you doing?" Peter asked him, the concern clear in his voice._

_"Fine, I guess," Neal said, a bit of confusion in his voice as he glanced around the bare white room._

_"Do you remember what happened to you?" Peter asked._

_Neal blinked a few times before his confused expression cleared up a little. Peter didn't know it, but Neal had just had a flashback of someone banging his head multiple times on the stairs. He schooled his expression carefully, saying, "I was…sleepwalking." He tried to say it with confidence, but because his voice was weak anyway, it came out sounding exactly like what it was – a lie. And they both knew it. _

_But Neal went right on with it, anyway; "I was having a nightmare, and I guess I beat myself up going up and down the stairs and back to my room. I woke up in a pool of paint, and then you were there." He swallowed. "Sorry for the trouble."_

_Peter patted his hand, going along with what Neal said. "It's fine, Neal. It wasn't your fault." He hoped that someday – hopefully sooner rather than later – that Neal would trust him enough to tell him the truth about what happened so that he could find the bastard that did this. No one deserved this – especially Neal._

Peter gulped as he came back to the present. Later, he would have to ask Neal about what really happened, but not now. He knew just by the fact that Neal had been stubborn enough to stay awake through the painful beating that he would definitely be stubborn enough to refuse opening up to either him or El.

El, of course, had been horrified by what had happened to Neal, and she definitely didn't believe Neal's sleepwalking story, but she was just as wise as Peter and didn't question it in front of Neal. She had deduced what Peter had as soon as she'd received the news, and she didn't want to push Neal even further away.

Neal had been clearly distressed by his sprained wrist, and though he didn't come right out and say it, both Peter and El knew that it was because Neal knew that he wouldn't be able to paint for a while. Ever since he'd come home from the hospital, he'd been very careful with it, clearly in the hopes that it would heal quicker.

Peter smiled a little at that. Neal probably knew that he'd been attacked and that someone had tried to kill him, but _no_ – he wasn't concerned for his life, he was concerned about his ability to paint. Talk about ironic.

Then he frowned. Neal had painted that wall in his room…the _very _ day before he was attacked. Coincidence?

Well, if there was one thing Peter Burke didn't believe in, it was coincidences. When Neal got home from school, he was going to have to ask him what exactly had been painted on that wall that would make someone want to kill him.

**~WC~**

**Okay…big tease, I know. But like I said in the beginning, people wanted more hospital stuff, so it was really just reflection in this, but I ****_had _****to have Peter realize ****_something_****, otherwise we would've gotten nowhere until Neal was attacked again, and really…who wants a whole lot of fluff in a story like this? Let's get to the good stuff!**

**And not to worry, for those of you concerned about the whole father-son relationship between Peter and Neal – that ****_will _****happen…just not yet. I don't want it to go so fast that it will be unrealistic, but it ****_will _****happen! Sometime…**

**Oh, also – thanks so much for all 100 followers and favorites and ESPECIALLY the reviews! Keep 'em coming, and I'll keep the chapters going! Thanks, y'all! ;)**


	10. The Lost Children

For Neal, the day passed by in a sort of blur. Honestly, he was still a little dizzy due to his concussion. Hardly anyone talked to him, but at lunch Neal sat at a table outside alone. A bit later, Alex had come to join him, and they chatted for a bit about nothing important. El had come to pick him up at three o' clock, and he'd been mostly quiet on the way home, though she'd tried to engage him in conversation. He just wasn't interested.

When they got back to the house, Neal had claimed that he had homework and went upstairs to his room, closing the door behind him.

There was still some stains on the ground from the paint, but it had been mostly cleaned up. Neal sighed and sank onto his bed, suddenly weary.

Suddenly there was flash of something before his eyes – the image of him running up the stairs as a man chased him. He couldn't see the man's face exactly, but he somehow knew that he didn't know him.

Neal came back to the present with a small gasp, and he glanced around the room, gaining his bearings. He wasn't being attacked; he was simply sitting on his bed, supposedly doing homework.

But this room…it was just bringing back too much fear, for reasons he could hardly remember. He had to get out of there – now.

So he jumped to his feet and walked down the hall, toward the Burke's room. But before he got there, he opened up a different door to a room that he knew he hadn't seen before. He wasn't sure what it was, and something new would be a refreshing change.

When he stepped inside, he saw an upright piano against the far wall. It was clear that no one had played it for quite a while, as dust coated the keys and the wood on top. A window on one of the other side was clean, clearly having been washed. The light filtered in softly over the room, giving the whole room a serene sort of aura. Neal instantly felt peaceful. He walked over to the piano and trailed his fingers on the keys.

Yes, he'd told Peter that he didn't play the piano, but that wasn't technically true. In truth, he loved playing the piano; he just didn't have a piano to play on, so he hadn't played for probably a couple of years. He'd stolen a piano once with Mozzie…he smiled at the memory.

Neal sat down a bit slowly, hesitantly, on the piano bench and plunked a few of the keys. It was only a little out of tune – a miracle – so he started playing.

As he played, he began to play a bit more confidently with every passing moment. Even the pain in his sprained wrist faded away as he lost himself in his passion. Finally, he truly felt peace.

~WC~

Downstairs in the kitchen, Elizabeth paused in mixing the cornbread batter as she heard the strains of "The Lost Children" by Michael Jackson drifting down from upstairs.

_The little punk, _El thought fondly, even as she caught the meaning of the song to Neal. She felt a pang of sympathy at his obvious unhappiness and feelings of loss and continued listening with rapture. _He does play piano after all._

Quite beautifully, too. She spent several more minutes listening to Neal play as he switched to numerous different songs. Finally, as he began to play "Hurt" by Johnny Cash, she returned to mixing the batter. Even so, she still listened to the music, and she knew. She was going to make Neal happier. She didn't want him to feel so much pain and loss and sorrow. So she would do all that she could to make him happy.

~WC~

When Peter came through the front door at seven o' clock that evening, he was surprised to hear piano music floating down the stairs. At first he thought that it was El playing, and was surprised, as she hadn't played in years. But then he smelled chili and cornbread, and El came quickly out of the kitchen to meet him.

With a quick kiss, she put her finger over her lips and motioned him to follow her into the kitchen. Obediently, he walked into the kitchen behind his wife. Once they were in there, El began stirring the chili.

But before she could speak, Peter said, "I thought he said he didn't play."

"Yes, but he never said he _couldn't_," El said. "He's been playing for hours, ever since he got home. He never repeats the same song."

"Well, he's pretty talented, then. I wonder who he learned from."

"I don't know, but…Peter, all of the songs he plays – they're all sad songs. He's definitely not happy here."

"Well…then…we'll make him happy." Peter finally said. "We decided that when we took him on – we don't really need to repeat that now."

"I know, but…could you talk to him? I get the feeling that he likes you more."

Peter gave a short laugh. "I don't think so. I think he's terrified of me, honestly. I don't know why, though."

El shrugged. "I don't know, but…just talk to him? Please?"

Peter sighed. "Alright," he conceded. "But I don't know if I'm going to get through to him like you could, hon. And I don't even know what to talk about."

El leaned over and pecked him on the lips. "I'm sure you'll do fine, hon. Talk about anything. Now scoot. When you're done talking, dinner will be ready."

~WC~

"That's one of my favorite songs."

Neal jumped a bit and stopped playing abruptly, startled by Peter's voice behind him. He bounced to his feet and said, "S-sorry," he stammered a little. "I didn't mean to intrude…"

"Oh, no – it's totally fine," Peter hastened to assure him. "If you hadn't played, it probably would've gotten old and unusable much faster. It sounded good – really good. El doesn't play anymore. Where did you learn to play?"

"A friend taught me," Neal said a bit nervously, and fought the urge to bite his bottom lip.

"Well, I'd like to meet this friend some time," Peter said with a smile, leaning against the door frame. "Sounds like a pretty good teacher. How long did he teach you?"

"Two years," Neal answered after a moment.

"So you like the piano," Peter mused. "You know any cheerful songs?"

Without sitting down, Neal turned and played "Mary Had a Little Lamb" quickly and effortlessly, and then turned back to look at Peter.

Peter knew that Neal was only doing a simple song like that because he wanted Peter to think that he _didn't _know any happy songs, or maybe it was defiance. He didn't know which one it was, but he wasn't having any of it.

"Aw, come one," Peter said with a teasing sort of smile. "I'm sure you know more than that. What about Disney songs? Know any of those?"

"No," Neal said, though Peter knew that he was lying. He didn't push it though, and said instead, "Well, we can get you a few music books, if you'd like."

"I can't read music," Neal said shortly, almost snapping. "I can only play by ear."

"You sure are one full of talents," Peter said.

"I smell chili – is it time for dinner?" Neal said, clearly trying to escape the conversation.

After a moment, Peter said, "Yeah – come on."

When they got downstairs, El looked at Peter, but Peter only shook his head. _No, _he was saying. _No progress._

**~WC~**

**Okay...so it's another tease of a chapter, but it will get better and juicier, I promise! So...review? Please?**


	11. New Friends, New Team, New Discoveries

**And…the introduction of more people that we know! Da-da-DUM! I'm so excited!**

**~WC~**

Neal walked into Biology the next day with a sigh. He'd never liked school much. He just didn't see the point in knowing what a Golgi apparatus was and its functions, or knowing who Genghis Khan was and why he was important to history. He didn't mind math class, because it was easy to understand and he knew when he'd use it, and he loved his art class. But overall, school sucked in general.

He sat down at his lab table beside the same girl he'd sat next to the day before. He hadn't noticed her the day before, but now he did. She was pretty, with dark hair that went a little past her shoulders. Her skin was pale and her eyes were wide and were the brightest shade of blue that he'd ever seen. She reminded him a lot of Mrs. Burke as she drew meaningless swirls in her notebook before the bell rang for class.

"Hey," Neal said to her, and she looked up at him. "Sorry I wasn't talking much yesterday. I'm Neal."

She smiled at him, and Neal was caught momentarily breathless by the dazzle behind that smile as she spoke. "Kate," she said. "Totally okay that you were quiet – I was too, on _my_ first day. When did you move here?"

"I was put into a new foster family," Neal said, and then mentally kicked himself. No one wanted to deal with a foster kid – no one ever did.

But Kate only smiled more. "Do you like your new family?"

Neal shrugged a little. "The Burkes are okay, I guess. I don't really know them yet."

Kate nodded. "I get it," she said. "I'm in the system, too. I just came here a few months ago, but that was before the school year started. My foster parents are pretty great." Then she paused. "Wait – did you say the _Burkes_? As in Peter Burke?"

Neal nodded slowly. "Yeah…"

She laughed a little. "That's funny. The family that I'm in, their kids' cousin works with him – her name is Diana." She paused again. "I don't even know how I remember that. But yeah. Small world, huh?"

Neal smiled a little and nodded. And the same feeling from the day before came back to him – the feeling he'd had when Alex had left. That feeling that the two of them were going to be great friends.

_Well_, Neal thought as he looked at Kate's breathtaking smile. _I'm just fine with that._

~WC~

Neal sat at Kate's lunch table that day, and there he met several other people. There was Matthew, a brooding boy with dark eyes and a strong Cockney accent; Ryan, a dark-skinned boy with a buzz cut and a taunting sort of nature; Cindy, a shy olive-skinned girl with wide dark eyes; Byron, a dark-skinned junior with bright eyes; and June, an older girl who had to take third and fourth grade late because she'd moved around too much when she was younger.

They were all very nice, in Neal's opinion, and they talked a lot in what sounded like a code or something. And then Neal got it; they were wary of him because they didn't know if he was a con or not; if he would turn them in because they admitted to anything. They were con artists themselves. Small ones, surely – maybe pickpockets – but ones that could still be prosecuted nonetheless. He studied each of them in turn and tried to decide what their possible skills were.

Matthew and Ryan must be the muscles of their group, with their big hands and brawny builds, and June was definitely a grifter. Byron must've been good at card tricks, and possibly art as well, with his long, delicate fingers much like Neal's. Kate and Cindy were actresses, for sure, and Kate looked like she could also draw, based on the callous on the side of her finger where her pencil was likely to rest.

"So," Neal said after a few more minutes of this stilted-like talk. "I guess you guys got a lot of talent."

June was the first one that got it, and a smile spread across her face, her eyes twinkling. "Yep," she said. "We like to combine our skills for some things, too. Makes it easier for all of us."

Slowly the others got it, and then Ryan said, "So. Do you want to join our little crew, too?"

Neal smirked. "Oh, I think that would be perfect."

~WC~

Peter sat in his office, staring at the stills in his hand. Ever since he'd looked at them the day before, something had been nagging at the back of his mind about them. He was missing something - he could _feel _it. He studied the figure of a man as he wrote on the form in front of him to cash in some forged bonds. There was just something so familiar about him...what was it?

The man had filled out the paper with the name "Steve Tabernacle". He was twenty-two years old, but Peter knew that was an alias. Why, "Steve Tabernacle" looked like he couldn't be more than sixteen years old. Of course, he _was _only seeing him from the back...

_Wait a minute, _Peter thought suddenly, looking at another picture. This one showed a profile view of the man, but it was the way he walked that caught his attention...

_Neal?_

**~WC~**

**Okay, yes, it has been a while since I updated, and it's probably going to be another long while before I have the next chapter up because honestly, it's so hard to write a good enough chapter to share, especially when I know the GENERAL direction the story is taking, but not the tiny little nuggets in between...any ideas? If so, please share! I need some small nuggets of wisdom from you guys! :)**


	12. Steve Tabernacle? HA

**Hey, look at that! I got the next chapter up in the same day! This is all thanks to a sudden idea instigated by a small little comment made by Fierce Queen, so thank you, FQ!**

**~WC~ **

When Neal walked through the door of the Burke's home, he could immediately feel the tension in the air. It was probably because he had stayed with his new group of friends after school for a couple of hours, and it was now five-thirty, and he hadn't called to tell Mrs. Burke that he was staying. She was probably worried. He felt a pang of guilt; he hadn't even thought about calling. He was used to more freedom – in the houses he'd been in before, the parents had always been at work when he should've gotten home from school. Even at the center, they didn't really care where you were – just as long as you were back by the time the gates closed and as long as you were doing nothing illegal.

Hah. Nothing illegal. In his spare time – or homework time, as most called it – all he'd done was forge about five million dollars' worth in art and bonds, stolen about the same in paintings, statues, antiquities, gems, jewelry, and anything else really expensive that caught his or Mozzie's eye. He'd run so many cons with and without Mozzie that he'd lost count, and no one was the wiser. Not the social workers, not the cops, not the Feds – no one.

With a smug sort of smile to himself, Neal continued in to the kitchen, quickly dropping the smile when he remembered El.

"Hey," he said as he walked in, "Sorry I got home so late. I forgot to call ahead and let you know." His eyes traveled to Peter, who stood beside the kitchen counter. Neal started to feel a bit of apprehension rising inside of him; Peter wasn't supposed to be home for another hour and a half. He had to be home for a specific purpose…hopefully it wasn't because of him.

But he pretended that nothing was wrong as he said, "I have a bit of homework, so I'm going to go upstairs – "

"Neal, come here," Peter interrupted him, and Neal's stomach dropped. Great. So this _was _about him.

But, ever the con artist, he walked over to Peter, a picture of confusion on his face as he did so, the total innocent. "What's wrong?" he asked as Peter turned to pick up a folder sitting on the counter.

"I thought you could help me with one of my cases," Peter said a bit too casually. He opened the folder, giving it to Neal. "Look at these pictures. Can you tell how old the guy is?"

Peter studied Neal's expression carefully as Neal looked at the pictures that he was given, but he didn't find out anything from it. Neal's appearance was perfectly confused yet interested at the same time, perfectly innocent. Peter began to wonder if he'd guessed wrong in the man's identity.

"Maybe twenty or so, based on these pictures," Neal said after a moment, closing the folder and giving it back to Peter with an innocent look on his face. "Who is he? What'd he do?"

At Neal's assumption, Peter's suspicions were back. The guy in the picture couldn't have been twenty, and he knew that. Neal knew that too, forget that look of pure innocence on his face. He was conning him. The boy that El had decided to adopt was a freaking _con artist_. No one could paint as good as Neal did – no normal kid, anyway – not with his background. That would explain his questions about Peter being an FBI agent. That would explain his worry about that phone call at the dinner table – it must've been one of his con friends.

"Peter?" Neal asked when Peter didn't say anything. "Who is he?"

"Drop the act, Neal!" Peter exclaimed. "I know that it's you!"

"Um…" Neal looked completely believable in his act of honest innocence, but Peter knew. "You have to be eighteen to have an account at the bank, and I'm only fifteen. That couldn't have been me."

"No, it was 'Steve Tabernacle', and he's twenty-two." Peter said.

"Peter," El cut in, thinking that Neal's act was real, but Neal started talking.

"I don't…what? If you know who it is, why are you telling me that it was _me_?"

"I know you're faking, Neal, and while I'm impressed with your skills, this is _illegal_. Maybe all you're doing is cashing in the counterfeits for your partner, but that's still _against the law_, and you _know_ that, and _that's_ why you got the alias."

"Peter, I don't…" Neal still looked confused. "_What_?"

"_Please_ – you've never showed the _slightest _interest in me besides asking about what I do as a Fed, and even now, you're sticking to this act when normally you'd brush me off."

Neal shrugged, adopting a look almost of sadness and longing. "My dad – my _real_ dad – was a cop. I want to be a cop too, when I grow up. I guess I'm just interested in law enforcement's cases."

"What happened to him, honey?" El asked, trying to steer the conversation topic away from where Peter was still heading.

Neal made his expression even more sad as he said, "I…it doesn't matter."

"So if this _isn't_ you, how did you _know_ that this guy was at the bank?" Peter demanded, still suspicious.

Neal gave an exasperated sigh and grabbed the file from Peter's hand. Opening it, he took out the first still and showed it to Peter. "It has the Midtown Mutual logo on the front of the desk," he said with an obvious _duh _in his voice as he pointed to where he was speaking of. "Look, Peter, before I lost my dad, he taught me to observe everything around me as fast as I could. So I do. I _do_,goddammit – I can't even help it anymore. If you want to find a felony in that, go ahead, but _just_ because I know how many windows are visible on the front of the house, or how many books are sitting on the bookshelf behind me right now, or how many times you've blinked since I've walked in, that _doesn't_ mean that I'm a criminal. So if you think that's _me_ at the front desk trying to cash in something fake or whatever, then _prove _it. _Try _and prove it. But right now, I don't feel like listening to this _bullshit_, so if you'll _please _excuse me." His voice took on a mocking edge as he turned to leave.

But Peter called after him, "You put on a convincing act, but I'll bet you do more than just bonds. Who was that man who attacked you, huh? Someone you pissed off by turning on in a robbery job?"

Neal suddenly whirled around, his eyes wide and expression angrier than it had even been a moment ago. Peter knew that his anger was true now – no one could fake the livid expression on his red face, in his posture, in his bright blue eyes. His bright blue eyes cut like laser beams into Peter as he bit out:

"_Even_ if all was going to _hell_ and I might be facing the _death penalty_, I would _never _turn on a partner, _Agent Burke_."

And before Peter could make sense of his words, Neal turned and ran out the front door.

**~WC~**

******So...maybe some of you readers out there CAN paint super good like Neal, and I'm not meaning this as an insult to you…:P Let's just pretend that it's impossible – at least with a background like Neal's…:)**

**I think that I deserve a review, don't you think? Come on, just type in the little box below...you know you want to! :)**


	13. 1891 Bordeaux

Neal ran down the street, trying not to let the tears pooling in his eyes escape. He regretted shouting at Peter - not because it was rude, but because he had come so close to admitting everything at Peter's last accusation. He had reined himself in before he could let anything important slip, but it might've been worse. It could've been worse.

Now, Neal didn't intend on going back. No. It was Wednesday, so Moz would probably be at Saturday right now. He could find him and stay with him as long as he could before another social worker found him and put him back in the center. That is, unless a certain FBI agent figured out who he was and hauled his ass to juvie in chains.

"Neal! Neal, wait up!"

Neal slowed at Kate's voice behind him, quickly trying to dry his tears before she caught up. He heard sneakers pounding on the pavement behind him, and then a hand grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

"Neal! I thought that was you, so I - oh my gosh, what's wrong?" Kate's face was a picture of concern as she noticed his slightly puffy eyes and pink face.

"It-it's nothing," Neal said, blinking a few times.

"Bullshit," Kate said flatly, yet somehow still with concern. She put an arm around him. "Come on. My house is just around the block - we can talk there."

Neal obeyed, following her down the street and around the corner to a nice suburban townhouse much like the Burkes'. She unlocked the front door and led him inside. As she locked the door behind her, she said, "My parents are working, and my brothers are on dates, so we should be alone for a while."

They went in to the kitchen, and she said, "Do you want anything to drink? I've got soda, milk, juice, beer..."

"Are you serious?" Neal asked at her last suggestion.

She quirked a smile at him. "Only a little. Personally, I'm more of a wine snob, but my dad likes beer, so we get beer."

"I'm not too much of a beer guy myself," Neal admitted.

"Well, in that case..." she raised an eyebrow at him mischievously, and then went to the counter, climbing onto it and standing so that she could reach a higher shelf. She came down holding a wine bottle, apparently full. She held it out to him by the neck.

"Would you like to do the honors?" she asked in an exaggerated voice.

Neal took the bottle, and then raised an eyebrow of surprise. "An 1891 Bordeaux? And you're living in a middle class house like this?"

Kate shrugged. "Eh. I got the bottle empty, and I fill it up with whatever cheap wine they sell at the grocery store."

"Why?"

She shrugged again. "It makes me feel rich. Come on, haven't you ever wished that you could get out of the life you have now? I mean, I love my foster family and all, but it's not the perfect life by far."

Neal shrugged his eyebrows, conceding. "Fair point. Alright, I'll play." he pulled the cork off of the bottle with his fingers and placed it on the table, and then pulled out a chair with a flourish for her to sit in.

"Madam," he said exaggeratedly.

"Oh! Wait!" she exclaimed, and opened the fridge, pulling out a couple of boxes of leftover pizza and putting them on the table. Then, she went to the cabinet and took out two wine glasses, also putting them on the table. She sat in the offered chair, and then Neal sat in the chair next to her, pouring the wine into the glasses.

He raised his glass, saying, "A toast."

"To..." Kate prodded, holding up her glass.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his expression cleared and he said, "To the..._French_ cuisine. It is truly spectacular."

After they sipped the wine, Kate said thoughtfully, "Actually, I'm pretty sure it's Italian."

"Italian, huh?" Neal mused, opening the box.

Kate nodded taking a piece. "It _is _pizza."

"You know," Neal said, taking a piece of his own, "Interestingly enough, I heard that the pizza in Chicago is actually better than the pizza in Italy. Something about their spices with the tomatoes."

"Really?" Kate said, "That's so odd, considering that tomatoes are like, the main staple of the Italian diet. You'd think they would know how to make the pizza better than anyone else."

"Of course, Italy didn't always _have _tomatoes," Neal said matter-of-factly. "They were brought over from the Americas during the Columbian Exchange around the fifteen hundreds."

"That's right - and that's when potatoes were brought over from Europe." Kate remembered. "Now there's Idaho. Isn't Idaho called the Potato State?"

Neal shrugged. "Who knows?"

For the next couple of hours, the two of them sat at the table and talked about nothing in particular, even after all of the pizza was gone and it began to grow dark outside. They finished off the cheap wine, and the empty bottle sat on the table between the two of them as they laughed. Kate never asked about why Neal had been upset, for which he was grateful. She just made him feel so comfortable around her, and he knew. He couldn't leave. He had to go back with the Burkes, because if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to see her, or Alex, or June, or Ryan, or Matthew, or any one of the friends he'd made in the past two days. He would be alone again, bouncing back and forth between families until he was eighteen and he could leave.

Finally, around seven-thirty, Neal stood to leave. "Thank you, Kate," he said sincerely. "But I should really get back to the Burkes' now."

She nodded, also standing. "Any time you just need to talk, Neal, I'll be here."

He smiled, and impulsively gave her a hug. "Thank you," he said. "I'll remember that."

**~WC~**

**So, I just thought that their conversation was a little goofy and fun, but I really wanted to include the whole thing with the bottle and cold pizza, because I just thought that that was so adorable. Then I wanted to add that little bit about Italy and Idaho...and yes, I know that Idaho is actually the Gem State, but I always thought of it as the Potato State, so I figured someone else would make that same mistake as well. :)**


	14. Painted Faces

Neal wasn't so much of a coward that he snuck in through his bedroom window. No; he simply walked through the front door. The Burkes were sitting at the kitchen table, but he ignored them and went upstairs to his room.

He sat on his bed for a moment, and then picked up a paintbrush from the ground. He opened the paint cans and dipped the paintbrush into a few of them. He decided to paint on the wall with the window, and in moments, a picture came to life. It was a dark picture, with browns and blacks and grays, but in Neal's mind, it made sense. It _all _made sense. Suddenly, there was red added, and purple – bright purple, almost blue, and a bit of white. Neal wasn't totally aware of what it was he was painting, but he painted it, almost mechanically, seeing it clearly in his mind's eye.

He finished the image in about an hour, and around then was when El came in. He didn't notice her at first, sitting on the ground and staring up at his work of art, but then she cleared her throat. He tensed a little, but otherwise didn't acknowledge her presence.

"Neal," she said, coming over and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He tensed even more, but she ignored it, saying, "I hope you know that Peter wasn't trying to be judgmental or harsh. We don't think you're a bad kid, but Peter can jump to conclusions pretty fast. He's sorry that he accused you of being a criminal."

Neal laughed hollowly, but didn't say anything. After a moment, El asked, "Are you okay, Neal?"

"'m fine," Neal answered.

"Tell me about your dad," El said when he didn't say anything else.

Neal abruptly stood, grabbing the lid to the can of white paint, going over to the can and pushing down on it to put it into place. "There's nothing to tell," he said, seemingly very focused on getting the lid on the can right.

"Of _course_ there is," El said. "He's your _dad_. He's one of the most special people in the world that you will _ever_ know. You've got to know _something _about him."

"Not mine," Neal said, picking up the lid for the black paint can. El was silent, expecting him to continue, and after he put the lid on the can, he did. With a sigh almost of exasperation, he got the lids to the blue and red paint cans, saying, "My dad was a cop. His favorite color was gray, and when he got home from work he liked to have a can of beer and talk with me. He hated sausage and spaghetti sauce, and his favorite ice cream was rocky road. He always noticed everything, and when we went on road trips, we always played the ABC game. He liked to have barbecues with his friends and family on his birthdays. He was strongly against abortion and strongly in favor of gay marriage. He liked to go shooting at the range on Saturdays, and sometimes he took me with him, even when I was too young to even know what a gun was. He doesn't believe in conspiracy theories, but he likes to know about them because he finds them amusing." Forcefully he pounded the yellow paint can lid onto the top of the can and said, "But even after all of that, he is, in short, a hypocrite and a _fucking asshole_."

Neal turned and looked at her, and El was startled to see that Neal was just barely containing livid rage in his eyes. She had been completely fooled throughout his description of his father, and hadn't been able to see his face as he sounded perfectly content, but when she saw his expression and he completed his description, she had realized just how pissed off at his father he actually was. It was clear that he hated him, though why, she wasn't completely sure.

"Is that enough description for you?" he demanded, sounding a bit sarcastic. "I only knew him until I was five, so I can't give a full, police-detailed description."

El knew that there was more to the story than Neal was letting on, but she was wise enough not to push it.

"Neal, I'm not trying to be the bad guy here," she said. "I just want to get to know you better. I mean, there's got to be _some _reason your painting is so amazing! There has to be someone who taught you to paint like a genius." The last part was true, but really El only said it to try and get him to smile and ease up.

But it had the exact opposite effect. Neal tensed even more as he said, "No. I taught myself."

El turned around and walked over to the wall where Neal's first painting was.

"Well, either way, it's pretty amazing." she said, studying it. She pointed to the group of faces on the right, where they seemed to be shouting or singing. "Who are those people?"

Neal walked over to the wall and pointed to one of the faces, a woman with stringy brown hair and a sharp, angular face.

"That's Janice," he said hollowly, then pointed to a balding man with a double chin. "That's Albert." He pointed to several other faces, listing off their names as he went. "That's Olga. That's Eddie. That's Dee. That's Renee. That's Larry. That's Carla. That's Felicia. That's Diane. That's Jerrod. That's Quinn. That's Malcolm. That's Cody. That's Hugo. That's Xina. That's Marie. That's Caryn. That's Oswald. That's Geoff. That's Viola. That's Barry. That's Jacob. That's Wilma. That's Alfred. That's Nina. That's James. That's Geralde. That's Aimee. That's Celeste. That's Rebekah. That's Lacey. That's Natalie. That's Zack. That's Jim. That's Sabrina. That's Kristine. That's Beverly. That's Mike. That's Stacey. That's Nancy. That's Ted. That's Frank. That's Antoine. That's Michelle. That's Melanie. That's Sierra. That's Rhonda. That's Rachel. That's Carolyn. That's Sarah. That's Susan. That's Jessica. That's Britney. That's Clint. That's Cory. That's Bryn. That's Alexander. That's Trenton. That's Lynn. That's Barney. That's Liz. That's Bess. That's Harvey. That's Louis. That's Conrad. That's Don. That's Robert. That's Corbin. That's Tim. That's Kenn. That's Chad. That's Erika. That's Curt. That's Amanda. That's Christie. That's Doug. That's Andrew. That's Mark. That's Antonio. That's Morgan. That's Laura. That's Suzanne. That's Meghan. That's Steven. That's Kathy. That's Jason. That's Krista. That's Tony. That's Norman. That's Isabel. That's Manny. That's William. That's Collin. That's Theresa. That's Jacques. That's Andre. That's Jennifer. That's Madison. That's Marshall. That's Noah. That's Elijah. That's Griffin. That's Dakota. That's Anne. That's Heber. That's Spencer. And that's Grant."

"Who are they?" El asked. "Why did you paint them?"

"They're some of my foster parents," Neal said, staring at the wall of faces.

El rose her eyebrows. "_Some?_" she clarified. If fifty-four couples was _some_, how many had he _actually _been through?

Neal shrugged. "That's three-quarters of them. I didn't have enough space for the other eighteen."

El blinked, and then said, "Why so many?"

Neal glared at the wall and answered, "No one wants to raise trouble. I never stayed in one place longer than a couple of months."

El was so surprised and sorry at the same time that she didn't know what to say. She stared at Neal's expression, which remained in its stony glare for all of three seconds. Then suddenly, his face crumpled into one of frustration and despair, and he whirled around, grabbing the one open can of white paint, about two-thirds full, and hurled it at the wall. Paint splashed up onto the faces, covering a few but not all. Neal, forgetting that El was even there, started to use his hands to smear the paint all over them. But because the paint was darker underneath, it couldn't be covered - it was still seen through the white. The paint dripped down the wall, gathering in a pool at the sheet on the ground.

El had been surprised at first, but then she followed her instincts, not trying to stop Neal but instead grabbing the closed can of blue paint and a couple of rollers. She quickly poured the blue paint into a tray and swiped one of the rollers through it, and then starting to roll it over the wall, covering the painting underneath. When Neal saw what she was doing, he stopped, seemingly realizing where he was and who was with him. He looked embarrassed for a moment, but then he watched El rolling the paint over the wall.

After a few moments, he took the other roller and joined her.

**~WC~**

**So...sorry this chapter took a bit longer than I originally intended, but I kept writing and rewriting it, because I wanted to get it just right without it seeming like it was being rushed through or anything. **

**Did you guys like this ending? Cuz I've gotta tell you, I came up with about a hundred different endings for this chapter that would've taken the story in a hundred different directions, some of them including guns...:/ But I finally decided that all this one really needed was Neal to start opening up, and him joining El was a symbol of that, I guess.**

**So...in the future, do you guys want more of this kind of angsty stuff, or do you want danger and action? Maybe some Neal whump? Let me know, cuz like I said, I can take this in about a hundred different directions! :)**


	15. Cartwheels & Backflips

**Alrighty, folks. Yes. It has been forever and a day since I've updated. I'm sooo sorry for that, but I got busy with my school's Spring musical, and then I forgot my idea for where I was going with the story, so that left me at a block for a while as I tried to figure out what to do…**

**Also, someone asked me if I could have Neal get raped by one of his former foster parents and then he acts different when he gets back to the Burke's house. There is a simple answer to that: no. I'm not going to do that for many reasons;**

**1.) If I did that, I would have to change the rating from T to M, and I don't want to disappoint anyone who won't continue because the rating is changed and they're basically left on an eternal cliffhanger.**

**2.) Neal is already closed off from the Burkes. Yes, he just opened up a little to El, but that was more of a one-time thing in a moment of despair. For now, anyway. So if he got raped, the only people who would notice anything different would be his new friends at school, and that wouldn't progress the story any – it would drag it on WAY too long.**

**3.) Neal already left all of his foster parents because they were clingy or negligent – not because they wanted a sexual relationship with him. It would be kind of amateurish to have one of them "come to their senses" or JUST "notice his appealing side" and only want him that way AFTER he's gone to the Burkes and away from them. If they'd wanted him in that way, they already would have raped him when he lived at their house and they'd be less likely to get in trouble with the law for it.**

**4.) I don't like writing about little boys being raped. Yeah, he's 15, but that's still just so depressing, especially for a bright boy like Neal.**

**5.) The story isn't JUST angst – there IS a mystery to it. If he was raped, a lot of the chapters would be centered around his feelings about that, and considering that I already have 14 chapters up and we STILL don't really know what's going on or what will happen, the story would end up WAY too long. Don't you ever just browse the completed stories and when you see that there are, say, 30 chapters with 150,000+ words…you get kinda discouraged and don't want to read it because it is just so DAMN long? I rest my case.**

**6.) Come on, guys. This is Neal we're talking about. You really want to see him get raped? Doesn't even the THOUGHT of it make you want to cry? I don't know – maybe that's just me. Still. Too sad, bro.**

**7.) I am a very detail-oriented person. I write EVERY detail I can think of. I'm not big on sharing the character's thoughts and feelings, but descriptions of what's happening is something that's just habitual for me. And really – do you REALLY want to hear about every single detail about what goes on for Neal? Me neither. I shudder to even think about it.**

**8.) As MarJan53 said (as she quoted Neal): "Violence is too easy a solution and doesn't take much thought." Both are right. It's too easy. For this type of thing, I don't like taking the easy way out. I like thinking through the plot bunnies and getting my act together the way it SHOULD be done.**

**Wow. Eight points that I thought of just at the top of my head. Sorry to the people who wanted something as drastic as Neal getting raped…maybe I'll make him have some quick, hardly there nightmare about it or make some obscure reference about it…hm…something to think about. But back to my point – I'm not going to have Neal get raped. End of story.**

**So…what I thought would be a fairly quick note turned out to be almost a whole page in Microsoft Word. :/ Sorry for the babbling. Here's the chapter, guys! Enjoy it after the long wait! :)**

**~WC~**

Neal ran his paintbrush smoothly over the wall, enjoying the blend of green and blue as he painted the reflection of a forest of pine trees on a glassy lake, frozen over with winter. The window sat open, allowing a small breeze to waft in, and he could hear El downstairs, the spoon tapping against the pan as she made dinner over the stove. He could faintly hear her humming, and then he heard the front door open.

"I'm home!" he heard Peter call after a moment. Neal heard El greeting him as he continued his mural. He had done that for the past couple of weeks – whenever he'd come home, he'd pause a moment before announcing himself. He had only started doing that after Neal had played the piano that one day, and Neal knew that it was because he didn't want to discourage Neal from playing the piano.

He hadn't played since.

Neal and Peter's current relationship was…strained, to say the least. Ever since Peter had accused him of turning on someone in a robbery, Neal had shut him out completely. He didn't initiate conversation with him, and sometimes even when he was being directly spoken to he wouldn't answer.

Neal had reflected a lot that if Peter had just left it alone after Neal tried to leave, and hadn't ever accused him of betraying an ally, he would've been able to forgive him and get over it. That was simply because everything Peter had accused him of before was true – of course, he'd never admit that. But accusing him of betrayal – that had crossed a line. He couldn't just let that roll off his back like he did pretty much everything else.

Of course, with El it was much easier. They had already grown to a mutual respect for each other, and though many times Neal was a bit hesitant, she could usually coax a comment out of him with her genuine smile and honest interest in what he had to say.

Neal sighed as he swiped the paintbrush he was using on a towel. The Burkes were okay, he supposed, but he was getting restless again. He was thinking of taking up on Mozzie's offer and taking off for the Virgin Islands, but…something had stopped him. Something had kept him here for reasons he couldn't begin to understand.

Just then his cell phone rang from over on his dresser, and Neal set down the paintbrush to go and pick it up. The number was unknown, so he knew that it was Mozzie. Mozzie had been calling every day to check up on him, knowing that Neal would eventually get bored in Brooklyn and leave with him. But he was also concerned, not wanting Neal to be unhappy.

"Hey, Moz," Neal said when he picked up the phone.

"No names, Ne – !" Mozzie said, but then cut himself off. "Oops."

Neal rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his friend's paranoia, but then he happened to see something out of the corner of his eye that removed all good humor. He begun doing cartwheels one-handed around the room as he spoke.

"Uh…Moz?" he said hesitantly, and on the other end, Mozzie immediately grew serious at the tone in Neal's voice.

"What's wrong, Neal?"

"Well…" Mozzie could hear his breathlessness clearly. "Your motto is 'never trust the government', right?"

Mozzie nodded in affirmation. "Always." He paused. "Neal, what are you doing? You sound…breathless."

"I'm currently doing one-handed back flips around my bedroom," Neal panted as he barely missed an open paint can in his path.

Mozzie was appalled and shocked, to say the least. "Why?" he said incredulously.

"Well, I just saw a silencer sticking out of the leaves of the tree right outside my window, and it's pointed in here. Not trying to panic or anything, but I'm just dodging whatever bullet might come in."

Mozzie grew concerned and even more shocked at Neal's calmness at the situation. "Get out of there, Neal! Are you _crazy_? Get the suit!"

"Your motto is 'never trust the government'," Neal argued as he switched back to cartwheels.

"Not when a _gun _is aimed at you!" Mozzie exclaimed. "Get _out _of there!"

"And what about Peter and El?" Neal argued again. "Don't you think they'll want to know what's going on? I can't exactly explain why someone is _pointing a gun in my room!_ _I _don't even know!"

"Dammit, Neal!" Mozzie exclaimed, clear panic and desperation in his voice. "I don't _give _a fuck what you tell them, but you need to get the _hell _out of there before you end up meat on the ground!"

"They're going to think I turned on someone and that's who wants me dead," Neal remarked, still not leaving.

"Who _gives _a shit what they think?! You're being _ridiculous_, Neal! This is your _life _we're talking about!"

"Not much of a life," Neal muttered.

"You don't have time for a soul-searching therapy session right now, Neal! Now, _goddammit_, get the _hell _out that room before I have to come down there myself!"

Just then something thudded into the wall right beside him, right where his head had just been. Neal's quick eyes saw the smoking bullet hole in the wall, and immediately something in his brain clicked as he stood upright again.

"Leaving now," he told Mozzie shortly, and hung up, opening his bedroom door and walking downstairs.

_Someone just shot at me, _his brain finally realized as he entered the kitchen. He walked on auto-pilot, going to the sink to wash his hands for dinner. His hands were trembling, but he didn't even notice as he made his way mechanically to the table.

"Are you okay, Neal?" Peter asked him slowly. He and El had both been watching him since he had come in.

Neal gave him a lopsided sort of smile. "I'm just great," he said almost cheerfully. Almost.

Peter noticed, but instead of the suspicion that Neal had expected, he got concerned.

"Are you sure?" Peter said. "You're…" he glanced down at Neal's still quivering hands. "…shaking," he finally said. "What happened?"

Neal tried nonchalance as he shrugged his shoulders. "Low blood sugar," he lied.

Peter narrowed his eyes, and then looked at El. "I'll be right back," he told her. "I need to go see Neal's room."

Neal could actually _feel _his heart stop. The shooter would probably still be in that tree, waiting for Peter, _federal agent_, to come so that he could kill him. If he was the same man who beat him up while he was home alone, he would think that Neal had told him who had attacked him, and now had told Peter.

_There are no witnesses, _a voice whispered in the recesses of his mind. He wasn't sure where he had ever heard that voice, but still it gave him the chills.

Without thinking, Neal jumped to his feet. "No!" he yelped. "He'll…" Then he cut himself off, staring wide-eyed and pleading at Peter. "Don't go," he said earnestly. "Please. Not right now."

Peter and El were both looking at him, El concerned and Peter stern. But Peter's sternness was more of a protective glare, like he wasn't mad at Neal but whoever had made Neal this scared.

"Neal…" Peter said slowly, "What's going on?"

Neal shook his head fearfully. "No," he said, almost whispered. "I-I can't tell you."

"Why not, honey?" El asked him concernedly.

Neal shook his head again, stuttering, "I – can't – he – "

"Neal," El said, coming over and putting hands on his shoulders, staring at him right in the eye. "It's okay. We can help you. Now, what's going on?"

Neal stared at her for several moments before he sank back down into his seat. El sat in the seat at the end of the table, and after another moment, Peter sat across from him.

Neal took in a deep, shaky breath, deciding what to do. After another moment of silence, he whispered, almost inaudibly, "Someone's trying to kill me."

**~WC~**

**Da-da-DUM!**

**Okay, so you guys already knew that someone was trying to kill him, so I guess that just takes the "DUM!" out of that dramatic flair…but still – now Neal has ****_finally_**** opened up – at least a little bit – to Peter and El. Now they can ****_finally_**** help catch the bad guys! Yay! Progression! :) This is gonna be great! :)**

**So...review? :)**


	16. Memories of Past Lives

**Okay, all of you skeptics out there…no, it's not that realistic that Peter and El wouldn't hear Neal doing back flips and cartwheels and all that…but imagine Neal when he was younger. He's pretty lightweight, isn't he? That's how he is in my mind, so in my mind, he would be able to do back flips and cartwheels silently, like a pro thief…haven't you ever seen that in the movies – the thieves always move through the laser beams silently and gracefully? Well, imagine Neal doing that. That's what he was doing.**

**Also, I do apologize for the long tangent about Neal being raped and all that, but for future reference, if you don't want to read my author's note, just skip over the part in bold like you see now, and don't get mad at me for _making _you read it. I'm not making you, okay? If you never read another author's note ever again, I'd be perfectly fine with that – _I _hardly read any author's notes on other people, too…**

**Also, the whole thing about Neal being overly calm with a gun pointed at him, it hasn't totally clicked in his head yet as Mozzie is trying to talk him out of it. One, it seems like it _couldn't _be happening to him, because he doesn't know what's going on or why he's a target; and two, he also doesn't want to tell Peter and El about all of it because he doesn't want them to panic or anything. Mozzie is the voice of reason at this point because he's the one who really understands the danger. When it says that something in Neal's head clicked, that's him basically coming out of his shock and realizing the full extent of what could happen to him.**

**Anyway…so that _this _note isn't too long, I'll let you read the chapter now. And, hey! It wasn't such a long wait this time, either! So be happy about _something_! :)**

**~WC~**

The house was still, silent. The window in the kitchen sat open, letting the cool breeze blow in gently, causing the curtains to billow slightly. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds away, and then it began to chime as the minute hand moved to the next hour. There were four soft chimes before it stopped, leaving the house silent again. The occupants of the house were all asleep, including the golden Labrador.

A scream pierced the peaceful silence, causing everyone else to wake up as well. Peter bolted up right before Elizabeth, and, grabbing his gun from the bedside table, he made his way quickly to Neal's room, thinking that someone was attacking him.

But when he got there, he was met with a sight even more horrific and heartbreaking. He lowered his gun and ran to Neal's form, which was thrashing around in bed. He was having a terrible nightmare, apparently, and was throwing himself around, trying to escape an invisible foe.

"No…not her!" he suddenly cried out, causing Peter to halt suddenly. "Stop…please…"

"Neal," Peter said urgently, touching Neal's shoulder. "Neal, wake up!"

"Mom!" the plea was heartbreaking, sounding broken and defeated, like it came from a small child. Peter shook his shoulder harder.

"Neal!"

Neal's eyes finally opened, and he quickly sat up, eyes wide and panicked. He was warm, tears streaked down his face and his hair sticking to his face and his neck from his sweat. His eyes were unfocused as they darted around the room, seemingly regaining his bearings.

"Peter," he breathed, sounding broken and helpless.

"It's okay, kid," Peter tried to assure him. "It was just a nightmare."

Neal's eyes found the glowing numbers on the alarm clock by his bed, and he saw that it was only a little after four o' clock in the morning.

"Sorry for waking you," he said, his face turning red with embarrassment.

Peter shook his head. "It's alright, Neal." he told him truthfully. He sat himself on the bed next to Neal and stared at him for a moment. Neal stared back, waiting for him to say something.

Finally Peter said, "How are you doing, Neal?"

Neal raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Someone's trying to kill me for unknown reasons," he said bluntly, though his voice still quavered a little. "What more is there to say?"

"That's not what I meant," Peter said with a shake of his head. "I mean, _because_ of everything that's going on…how are you dealing with it?"

Neal shook his head uncertainly. "I don't understand."

"Well…" Peter said slowly, as though searching for the right words. "You're having nightmares. What are they about?"

Neal pulled his knees up to his chin and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. "I don't know," he said after a minute. "They're all jumbled up – they don't make any sense. This…this guy that came after me while you and El were gone – he was there when…" he swallowed and looked up at Peter, a haunted look in his eyes. Peter was startled to see the distant, hollow look in those bright blue orbs, and had the sudden urge to enfold Neal in a hug. He ignored the urge, though, waiting for Neal to continue.

"I've been in the foster system for eight years now," he finally told him. "Before that, I lived on the streets for two years. Before that, I lived with my mom and my dad. Life was hard at times with little income, but we got by. We were happy.

"I'm told my mom died of ovarian cancer, but I don't remember. I don't have a single memory of any time between my fourth and my fifth birthday. That's the time when my mom died. My dad left during that time, too – the first memory I have after I was three was when I was five and a homeless guy snatched my dollar coin out of my hand as I walked by." He looked down at his intertwined fingers for a long moment before looking back up at Peter.

"But I keep having nightmares, about…about the guy that attacked me." His voice quavered a little as he continued, his eyes burning bright in memory. "He was…he was watching, as another man…" he trailed off as he gulped, and then a new determination filled his eyes. He took in a deep breath and then said in a hard, cold voice, "He was watching as my dad pulled a gun out of his jacket, pointed it at my mom's head, and pulled the trigger."

Neal's eyes burned even brighter as he stared fiercely at Peter. "There's that saying, that dreams are really memories of past lives. What if I'm remembering what was forgotten in that time that my mom died? But if that's the case, why would I have nightmares of my father killing my mom?"

~WC~

"_Is he out of the way?"_

"_Sorry, boss. He must've known I was there, and he got out of there. He told the Fed everything, and now the house is being watched by the Feds. I can't go in now."_

_The line was filled with curse words by the boss, and the other man winced, but didn't say anything, letting his boss vent._

_Finally the irate man calmed down enough to say, "Well, there is that saying – if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."_

"_Boss?" the other man said nervously, but his boss continued as though he hadn't spoken._

"_You're finished – your job is done for now. I may have more in the future, but…" he chuckled darkly. "Right now I have my son to deal with."_

_There was a click, and the line went dead._

**~WC~**

**So…does anyone else like that twist at the end there? I liked it…I hadn't originally planned on that, but when writing this I came up with the idea, and I hadn't written anything previously that contradicted it, so…surprise! :)**

**Also: I need your guys' help with something easy-peasy. What is your favorite con that Neal runs? Or one that he SHOULD have run? It could really be anything from pick pocketing to forgery to identity theft, but whatever it is, please specify! Whichever one people like the most, I'll use it in a future chapter…but I won't say how I'll use it – not yet. :) Why spoil the surprise? :)**


	17. Set Up

**Wow. It's been ****_forever _****since I updated, and I truly am sorry, guys! I wasn't sure how to go about this without rushing through it, but then I'm like, you know what? Screw it. I can rush for one chapter, because if I don't I'm never going to finish this! And I DO want to finish it. **

**Thank you to ALL of the concerned followers that worried that I wasn't going to finish this, and I promise I'm going to try to never have as long of a hiatus between chapters! (For this fic, anyway…:/) I figured out how to pull through my block, and I think this will probably be done with about 25-30 chapters. :) I dunno. **

**And, without further ado, here is the chapter!**

**~WC~**

They didn't aspire to work for adults, true, but when Matthew was approached by someone who said he would pay well for a crew to do a job for him, it was an offer he just couldn't refuse. He told them about it one day - a job at the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts to steal four paintings from their frames. The man wanted them fully intact, but the problem was that no one had ever actually _seen _these paintings at the Museum...they were hidden behind the _real _paintings. It would be beyond difficult to disable the pressure-sensitive alarm system _exactly _long enough to get the paintings out without alerting the authorities.

But this crew of eight was confident that they could pull it off, so one Friday they ditched school to go and do it.

...Which they didn't know would be a _very _bad idea.

~WC~

Peter found out on Wednesday. It was through an anonymous tip that Peter received just as he was leaving work, through his cell phone, no less. He didn't know how the man at the other end had gotten his number, but when the smooth and sophisticated voice informed him of a crew that was going to rob the Met on Friday afternoon, he knew he had to chance it. Even if this was a set-up, he would go in there, and he would bring his guys. Just to make sure.

~WC~

Pride filling his heart, Neal peeled back the painting in its frame. He was sure he would find a lost Raphael or Michaelangelo, and after they turned it over to the man paying them, he would be living the high life. He could leave New York with Mozzie and never look back. He could feel the excitement of his six friends and crew members as they rode the high of the anticipation of completing a huge job - their _first _huge job.

But then Neal pulled back the painting completely...and there was nothing behind it.

They all stared at it for several moments before they all began talking at once.

" - what the _hell _-"

" - how could this -"

" - but he _said _- "

" - and he was going to pay - "

" - it couldn't - !"

" - why isn't it - "

" - Keller - !"

But through all of this, Neal was silent, staring at the white behind the painting as the pieces clicked into place. He had wondered how that man had found out about their crew, but he had brushed it aside, thinking of the money they would get. But now he knew.

"Guys!" Neal shouted over the alarms, and they quieted, looking to him for direction.

"You all need to get _out _of here," Neal said, "Right _now_!"

"What?" June cried. "What's going on, Neal?"

"It's my dad," Neal explained quickly. "He set this up, to get to me. It's a long story, but you _all _need to _get the hell out_!"

"We can't _leave _you," Alex insisted. "You're one of us!"

"You _have _to," Neal said quickly. "I'll try and catch up to you, but I can't guarantee anything. Now _go_!"

Hesitantly, they all stepped back. Ryan was the first to open the door, but then he immediately closed it, shoving the large lock into place.

"The Feds are coming!" he hissed.

"Go through the ceiling!" Matthew ordered, quickly taking charge as climbed on top of a glass case to open up one of the tiles. Neal helped from below to get them all up, and just as Byron was pulled up by Ryan and Matthew, the door was slammed open with the battering ram, a dozen FBI agents in bulletproof vests storming in.

"FBI! Hands on your head!" a familiar voice shouted.

"GO!" Neal hissed when he saw Byron hesitating.

"I said _hands on your head_!"

After another moment, Byron turned and followed the rest of the crew down the vents. It was only then that Neal slowly complied with the agent's orders. He clasped his hands behind his head and bowed it a little in acceptance. He hardly noticed that his hands were trembling a little.

"Turn around slowly," the agent ordered again. Neal complied, and came face-to-face with Agent Jones and the gun he held pointed at him. His face morphed from sternness to shock as he recognized him, but before he could say anything, another man walked in, stopping short when he saw Neal.

"_Neal_?"

Neal smiled weakly. "Hey, Peter. Small world, huh?"

Peter shook his head, looking angry as he broke out of his spell and walked behind him. He practically yanked his arms down from his head as he pulled the handcuffs from his belt. Closing the cold metal around Neal's slender wrists, he said:

"Neal Caffrey, you're under arrest."

The handcuffs clicked into place.

**~WC~**

**So, this chapter I wasn't too happy with, but I suppose that comes with rushing through it. Still...I feel so evil after that! ;) I know I don't really deserve to ask, but...please review! Reviews help, really! :)**


	18. Interrogation Leads to a Plan

**Hey! Guess what, guys! I'm updating! Right now! And it's the very day after I made the last update! Yay me! I regret to inform you guys though, I probably won't update for a couple of weeks if not more after this because this week I have finals and then I'm going out of town...:/ But you can still review! I can still check my email on my phone - I just can't update...:/**

**~WC~**

"Who helped you in that museum?"

"What were you searching for?"

"What did you plan to steal?"

"How many people were in your crew?"

These were just a few of the questions that the FBI asked Neal that day and into the evening. Neal stayed silent through the whole thing, staring at a spot on the cold metal table. His hands had been cuffed behind him for hours, but he hardly noticed the physical discomfort of the cuffs. He vaguely noticed that Peter was on the other side of the window to the left of him, watching, but he wasn't thinking about Peter. No, he was thinking about his _real _father.

His father had set it all up, there was no doubt about that. The question was – _why_? Why go through all the trouble of finding him and setting up this job only to call the Feds and alert them to the robbery? Why have him arrested instead of killing him?

_There are no witnesses._

He frowned to himself. No witnesses. Why not…?

No. He wanted him arrested because if he went to juvie, it would be _so easy _to kill him there and make it look like an accident. If he killed him while he lived with the Burkes, his father no doubt _knew _that Peter would search for him, and know that it was murder. But at juvie, it could just look like a normal prison fight.

"Who paid for you to steal something?"

"I need to talk to Peter," Neal said quietly, speaking for the first time.

"It's Agent Burke to _you_," the agent interrogating him said sharply. "And you still need to answer my questions."

"I need to talk to Peter," Neal repeated.

"Why, you little – "

"It's alright, Hoyt," Peter said, coming in. "I'll take it from here."

"But he – "

"I'll take it from here, Hoyt," Peter said in a voice that brooked no argument. With an annoyed look, Agent Hoyt left the room. It was quiet as Peter sat down in his chair and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on the table as he stared at Neal.

"Why, Neal?" Peter said simply after a minute of silence.

Neal seemed to be weighing something before he said, "Can you turn that off?"

"Turn what off?" Peter asked him, confused.

"The recording, and the microphone. I need to talk to _just _you, Peter."

"Why?"

Neal looked up at Peter then, and he _saw_. He saw the hurt, the betrayal, and the confusion written clearly in his eyes, though he was trying to hide it. Peter couldn't understand how Neal could do something like this – stealing from a museum when his foster father was an FBI agent. Peter and El had done so much for him; _tried _to do so much for him, but Neal had just thrown it in their face. He would no doubt be taken from them.

"You remember that nightmare I had, that I told you about a few weeks ago?"

"The one about your mom?" Peter asked curiously, thinking back.

Neal nodded. "And my dad."

Peter tightened his lips a little in remembrance, and he reached over and turned off the tape recorder and the microphone. As soon as he did, Neal stood up and began pacing behind his chair.

"Okay, maybe I'm wrong," he said after a moment, turning back to Peter. "And maybe you don't even care anymore – after this, I mean. But I just had this…this _crazy _thought when I was at the museum." He began pacing again. "And it's probably totally nutjob-like, but this…this _guy_…he just randomly approached one of my crew members, and told him that he would pay us really good if we pulled off a job at the Met."

"What was this job?" Peter asked, even though he doubted that Neal would answer.

But Neal surprised him, saying readily, "We were supposed to steal four paintings – but no one had ever seen them."

"Why's that?"

"I'm getting to that, Peter. No one has ever seen them, because they're hidden behind the _real _paintings hanging up on the walls. Long story short, we had to get them fully intact and make it look like nothing had been robbed. That way, the Feds wouldn't come searching for it around his place, even though they didn't even know what they were looking for.

"But when I removed the _real_ painting, there was _nothing _behind it. It was just another random painting."

"Could you have gotten the paintings mixed up?" Peter asked doubtfully.

Neal shook his head vehemently. "_No_. I _know _that I got the one he said. Anyway, I _know _that that man set it up so that the Feds would catch us."

"Why would he do that?" Peter said with that same doubting voice as before. "What does he gain from that?"

"Well, I _strongly _suspect that that man that told Ma…y crew member"—he quickly improvised—"…I'm _sure_ that it was my father."

"Again, _what_ does he gain from that?" Peter was beginning to grow frustrated.

"If I was caught, I would go to juvie. Did you know that six percent of people sent to juvie die within the first year of their sentence? It could be sickness, suicide, or homicide. If I went to juvie – which will no doubt happen – it would be _so __**easy**_ to kill me. It could be a prison fight, hanging myself in my cell, a mysterious sickness that came about after I ate dinner one night that I just _never _woke up from. The point is, he's gonna kill me. If I go to juvie, he's gonna kill me, and make it _look _like an accident so that he can get away with it. No one would ever investigate it – I'm just a meaningless thief. I'd bet that _you'd _never look into it."

Peter shook his head in confusion, feeling a little lost. "So…what do you want _me _to do about it? _You're _the one that decided to try and rob the museum. That's even more stupid than doing cartwheels to avoid a bullet when you could _just_ as easily walk out of the room! Or how about when you lied to me about who was at that bank? That _was _you, wasn't it? And we _certainly _can't forget the time when you lied about sleepwalking, and we could've caught your attacker _then_! This is _by far _the _stupidest _thing that you have _ever _done!"

"Okay! I get it!" Neal said over Peter's anger. "I've done stupid things, and yes, _this_ _was_ _stupid_. But _you _don't know what it's like to go through seventy-two families in eight years only for them to toss you back out like a used piece of garbage. You don't _know_ what it feels like to wonder if when you go home, will there be a hot meal waiting for you or another beating? You don't know what it's like to wonder what your recurring nightmares mean; you don't know what it's like to wonder what _really_ happened to your parents; you don't know what it's like to wonder why everyone seems to be conspiring against you; you don't know what it's like to have to find your own food and make a living for yourself because you're too scared to go home or too scared to even go back to social services. _You don't know what it's like to be me_.

"But _I_ do. I've lived basically on my own for _years _now, and when you have so many questions, eventually you learn to ignore them and go live your life. Go do what you need to survive, and have _no _regrets."

"That doesn't mean you can _break the law_, Neal!" Peter said in frustration, looking at the ceiling as though it held all of the answers. "What am I supposed to do? Dammit, Neal, I _want _to help you, but I don't know how! _How _am I supposed to help you?!"

"Keep me in your custody," Neal said quickly. "Don't send me to juvie – just until my…just until _James _gets caught and arrested."

"What's to keep you from running at the first chance you get?" Peter asked skeptically. "I know you've had a habit of that in the past."

Neal thought quickly, and then remembered something Mozzie had said in one of his many rants about the government.

"GPS tracking anklet," he answered. "You can set a radius from anywhere you want, and if the tracker goes out of that radius or it's cut, it sends you a signal on your phone or your computer and you can be there in five minutes."

"Sounds like a lot of trouble," Peter said, still skeptical.

"I can make it worth your while," Neal said quickly, his mind traveling at the speed of lightning. "I'm good at figuring stuff out – I can help you solve your cases. I could even be an inside man. No one would ever suspect a kid!" he sounded desperate, Neal knew, but at the moment he didn't care. He was scared – scared of what his father might do to him if and when he found him.

"I don't know, Neal," Peter said, staring down at him.

Neal stared earnestly into Peter's eyes. "Please, Peter," he pled softly. "I'm…I'm scared." His voice sounded small and weak, and he hated how pathetic he sounded. He was supposed to be strong – to keep up his façade and push through everything with a smile. But he was just a teenager – a kid, really. The thought of someone out to kill him – _especially _his father – had stripped away that mature mask he always put up.

But the words seemed to have an effect on Peter as his eyes softened. He stood up, saying, "I'll see what I can do."

**~WC~**

**Yes yes yes! Please review! XD**


	19. Long Time, No See

"It's the janitor."

The words were flat, matter-of-fact, and came from the mouth of a small fifteen-year-old sitting in the conference room of the FBI White Collar division. His leg jiggled impatiently below the table – he was ready to go home. But he still had another half hour before he could get a ride.

"How do you figure?" Peter asked from the head of the table, where he stood in front of the TV screen on the wall.

Neal shrugged smugly. "Logical guess…and also a little something I like to call a recording on my phone where he basically confessed to the whole thing."

"And how did you get him to confess?" Diana questioned with a raised eyebrow.

Neal flashed her a smile. "What can I say? No one can resist this face."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Alright, Jones – get his phone down to evidence – "

"Already done, Peter," Neal said, smile growing. "I emailed it to their computer fifteen minutes ago."

Peter sighed with annoyance, but he couldn't fight back the rising smile of pride for his foster son. He had been working for the FBI for almost three weeks now, and he had already solved two cases for them. The first time he got the perp to confess while drinking lemonade after mowing the man's lawn. The other time he had told the perp that he was a tourist from Greece who spoke little English and couldn't find his parents and would she please help him? Peter wouldn't have been surprised to hear that this time he had claimed to be in Boy Scouts selling cookie dough when he felt "suddenly dizzy" and had to be taken inside to the air conditioning to prevent having a febrile seizure, and thereby had enough time to finagle a confession out of the man.

He really had a way with words.

At first, the FBI had been hesitant about bringing in a minor, but when Neal pointed out to them that it could be passed off as community service, they gave the go-ahead. Now, Neal had an anklet that chafed his leg every time he moved and could enjoy watered-down coffee in the FBI offices after school between four and eight every night, sometimes later, if a certain case required it. Neal had to give one hundred hours of community service, and so far Neal enjoyed it.

"Pretending to be someone else with all of the background to go with it?" Neal had said when he first started. "It's like a con…and who doesn't love a good con?"

Peter had to admit, he was growing a grudging admiration for the kid. He had felt so betrayed – still did, if he was being completely honest – but Neal seemed to be making an honest effort to earn back that trust. He never complained about the deal that had been made, but he also never told who was in his crew. Peter had a sneaking suspicion of who it was, but he brushed it by, accepting that Neal was stubborn and he wasn't going to betray his friends. He remembered what Neal had said a few weeks ago – **_Even_**_ if all was going to __**hell **__and I might be facing the __**death penalty**__, I would __**never **__turn on a partner, __**Agent Burke**__. _

Looks like he kept his word. Of course, he hadn't been tested with the death penalty and only several hours of community service, but the sentiment was the same, he supposed. And he couldn't help but admire Neal for that – especially because he got seventy extra hours of community service because of his silence. Still, Neal seemed to enjoy it. Of course, he _was _a con artist, so he could be faking the joy the whole time.

"Well, then I think you're done for the day, Neal." Peter said with a smile. "I'll be ready to drive home in a few minutes."

Neal fought back the urge to jump in the air and scream for joy. Instead, he simply smiled and said coolly, "Sweet." Picking up his backpack from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder, he walked out of the conference room to go and talk with some of the other agents still there.

After he'd left, Peter turned back to the other agents still sitting. "Everyone is dismissed. Diana, please stay – I need to talk to you."

After the other agents had left, Diana stood and walked over to him, leaning against the table. "Everything okay, boss?"

"Have you gotten any word on Neal's dad?" Peter asked her quietly.

Diana shrugged and reached into her briefcase to pull out a file, giving it to him. "I meant to give it to you earlier, but you were busy. There's everything there on James…you can see it isn't too pretty."

Peter opened the file and saw a mug shot of the man. He looked like how he expected Neal to look in twenty years. He scanned down his record and raised his eyebrows.

"Convicted for burglary; suspected of murder, sexual assault, aggravated assault, arms dealing, domestic violence in the presence of a minor, domestic violence, brutality, theft, breaking and entering, racketeering...Diana, this doesn't look good."

Diana nodded in agreement. "And if all of those 'suspected of's are true, Neal is in pretty big trouble."

It had been three weeks since Neal's deal with the anklet had been made, and he hadn't heard anything from his father. He began to grow comfortable, more confident and sure of his safety. Mozzie would've been disappointed if he knew. But he didn't, because it had been a while since he'd heard from the man, busy at school and then the office.

Speaking of school, Neal went back a few days after the deal, and it was clear that his friends were relieved that he'd gotten free. When he'd shown them the anklet and explained the deal, Matthew and Ryan had begun ignoring him more and more, but the rest of them remained with Neal, though Alex was a little uneasy with it. When Neal had explained about the issue of his dad, they had of course become concerned, but they didn't know what to do about it besides stick with him.

Then there were the jerks who began bullying him because of the anklet and his sentence. One day Neal went home with a limp and a black eye, giving El and Peter the excuse that he had fallen down the stairs at school.

There were no stairs at the high school.

Peter was pissed.

No, he was more than pissed - he was livid with _rage_.

How could Neal do this? It had been _three weeks _working with the FBI, and he'd thought he was becoming a bit more trustworthy, more on the _right _side of the law. He'd thought Neal was reforming into an upstanding citizen, that he enjoyed putting the bad people in jail.

Stupid wish. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Now he could see it; Neal had been playing an angle the whole time. That pride he saw in his eyes after revealing who the bad guy was? That wasn't pride for being a hero to the victim - that was pride that he was fooling everyone into thinking he was doing what he was supposed to.

Of course, it had only been three weeks. How could he have expected a change so fast? No one, not even a kid - _especially _not a kid - could go from law-breaking to law-abiding in twenty-two days.

But right now, he didn't want to think about that - all he really wanted to do was take him over his knee. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for Neal to show up at the front of the school to take him back to the office for the night. Finally, he saw Neal approaching. He was talking to someone, someone Peter couldn't see through the mass of people, but before he got too close he bid farewell to whoever it was and walked over to the car. He opened the door and slid in, wincing a little when he closed the door. His wrist was a little swollen, but Peter didn't notice his pain as he begun driving.

It was silent for several tense moments before Neal, finally uncomfortable with the quiet, said a bit hesitantly, "Peter?"

"How could you do this, Neal?" Peter finally sighed, sounding weary.

Neal's eyebrows closed together in confusion. "What are you - ?"

"Don't give me some bullshit excuse, Neal - I'm _really _not in the mood for it."

"Peter, whatever you think I did, I can honestly tell you that I _didn't _do it." Neal was growing increasingly concerned with the direction this conversation was taking.

"Yeah? So you _didn't _forge a De Gas and sell it to a guy named Jimmy as the real thing? And you _didn't _steal a guy's set of gold watches and go fence them to a girl named Sophie?"

Neal shook his head strongly. "Really, Peter – at _what _point could I have done those things? I've been home, school, and the office for the past three weeks and when I haven't been, you've _seen _where I was because of the tracker!"

"I checked attendance records at the school and I see that every Wednesday and Friday you skip the last three hours. I pulled up the tracking data and I see that you've been to places such as Grand Central Station and Central Park. Now, _what_ would you be doing there?"

"Not forging a painting in broad daylight!" Neal protested. "To forge a painting you would need tools, _equipment_ - to make sure it's not ruined from the elements! And the lighting from the sun moves too much – it would make the colors look wrong, and to get the painting – " He cut himself off when he saw Peter's raised eyebrow.

"Look, I may have allegedly tried to forge a painting outside in the past, but I _couldn't _have done it this time! I _didn't _do this, Peter!"

Peter shook his head. "No. I know you did this. You've lied to me before – "

"I've _never _lied to you, Peter," Neal cut him off suddenly.

Peter scoffed. "Please. You lie for a _living_."

"Well, not to _you_. I may have excluded certain things or let you believe something without correcting you, but I've _never _told you an actual lie."

"There's a first time for everything, Neal." Peter said flatly as he pulled to a stop at a red light.

Neal shook his head, feeling betrayed, even though he didn't deserve Peter's trust…still, his words hurt. "I haven't lied to you, Peter. I'm not lying to you now. I didn't do this."

"I think you did."

At these words, Neal unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and stepped out onto the street, closing the door behind him. Peter immediately rolled down the window.

"Get back in the car, Neal!" he said sternly. "We're going to be late to the office!" Neal shook his head angrily and turned to walk away.

"Where the hell are you going, Caffrey?" Peter sounded angry, and that combined with calling him by his last name instead of his first made Neal even angrier, if not a little hurt. He whirled around and stared Peter in the eyes.

"Home!" he shouted defiantly. "You can check my anklet if you don't believe me!"

The light turned green and the cars began to pull forward as Peter called to Neal's retreating back: "I _will_!"

Without turning, Neal waved him angrily away, shouting over his shoulder: "Do it!"

Twenty minutes later, Neal felt sufficiently calmed down, though still hurt by Peter's words. He kicked at a piece of trash on the sidewalk. How could Peter think something like this? He wouldn't do this – not so soon. He had a good deal going for him with the FBI – protection being at the top of the list of pros. It would be stupid to turn on them so suddenly and without a plan. On top of that…what about Peter? And Elizabeth? What would they have thought when they found out about his side jobs?

Neal angrily pushed his fingers through his hair as he walked. Someone grabbed his shoulder, and he angrily pushed it away, thinking that it was another homeless guy who wanted his money or his shoes, maybe even his backpack.

But the grip remained sure, and Neal turned around to meet a handsome man with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to pierce into him. Something about those eyes was so familiar…

"Hello, Neal," the man greeted smoothly. "I've been looking for you."

Neal blinked, a cold feeling suddenly washing over him as he recognized the man. He was older and had more wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, but those eyes…he would know those eyes anywhere.

"…Dad?"

**~WC~**

**Dum-dum-DUM! Hehehe…this makes me excited – one, because of the situation, and two because there are only a few more chapters left…not that I don't love the story and all, but because I will feel so accomplished to ****_finally_**** be through with this! Please let me know what you thought of the chapter in a yummy little review down below! :)**


	20. Signal Lost

**I'm beginning to think that maybe, possibly, I'm too predictable…QueenOfAshes pretty much guessed what I'm doing in this chapter! Good job to her, though…:p Just to forewarn you guys: I do follow some of the storylines and scripts that are in the actual TV show in my fics…I can't help it! Hope that doesn't annoy any of you guys TOO much…;p Anyway, thanks for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming, and I hope you love this chapter! :)**

**~WC~**

_Neal angrily pushed his fingers through his hair as he walked. Someone grabbed his shoulder, and he angrily pushed it away, thinking that it was another homeless guy who wanted his money or his shoes, maybe even his backpack._

_But the grip remained sure, and Neal turned around to meet a handsome man with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to pierce into him. Something about those eyes was so familiar…_

_"Hello, Neal," the man greeted smoothly. "I've been looking for you."_

_Neal blinked, a cold feeling suddenly washing over him as he recognized the man. He was older and had more wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, but those eyes…he would know those eyes anywhere._

_"…Dad?"_

~WC~

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Neal stared at his father, too shocked and terrified to form an adequate response. His mouth hung slack as he stared at him, too stunned to even move.

"What's the matter? Nothing to say to your dear ol' dad?" His voice was teasing, a far cry from the cold, heartless man Neal had expected. He remembered little of his father, his knowledge of him based mostly off of what his mother had told him. But he did know that he hadn't always been cruel. Still, after his memory and then figuring out the set-up at the museum, he had expected that James had changed in the eleven and a half years since he'd seen him.

Finally, though, he pulled himself out of his dazed state and said in a voice that belied the swarming bees in his stomach, "Hey…Dad. I didn't think I'd be seeing _you _any time soon."

James grinned and slung his arm around Neal's shoulders. Instead of seeming friendly, though, it felt more like it was to keep him in place so that he wouldn't run. It felt threatening, and Neal could feel his heartbeat speeding its pace.

"Now, Neal," he said in mock scolding. "I know that's a lie – you're smarter than you let on, and you figured out the con with your friends pretty quickly, I'd say. You knew I would come after you."

Neal shook his head as though trying to shake James' words from his head like one would water from their ears after going swimming. "What's your point?" he said, embarrassed that his voice cracked a little at the end as his nervousness showed through.

"I need you to come with me," James said as a car pulled up beside them like magic.

Neal shook his head as he tried to pull away from the man's grip. "No," he said. He would've said more, but a sudden punch to the gut knocked the wind from him.

"I'm your father, so you must obey me," he said in an almost pleasant voice.

Neal let out a laugh, bitter and mocking as he tried to get his breath back. "Yeah, I can believe _that _after the _eight years _in the system. I've got new parents now."

James let out a laugh. "That's just as temporary as the seventy-two _other_ families you've been with. No one gets you without _my _say-so."

The words hit Neal a lot harder than the punch had. It was true – he knew it, he'd just been fooling himself into thinking that the Burkes were different, that they wouldn't toss him out like every other family over the years. But they would, eventually, when his shit got just too complicated to handle.

"Now, I know about your deal with the Feds," James said casually, pulling a pair of clippers from his back pocket and handing them to Neal. "I want you to cut that anklet, right now."

Neal paused a moment as he stared at the clippers, and then took them and bent down.

"Hey, James," the driver called. "If we're going back to your place, we need to get moving – there's an accident on the way that will slow us down."

James turned to give the driver directions, and as he did, Neal clipped the anklet. The light turned red, and Neal glanced up to make sure that James was still occupied as he pressed the two ends of the clipped anklet together.

_Short-short-short-short-long, short-short-short-short long-long-long short-short-long short-short-short short…_

Neal stood up and showed James the tracking anklet as he turned back around. "Tick-tock."

James motioned with his head to the car as he opened the back door. "Let's go."

~WC~

Peter had just barely sat down at his desk in the office when his computer started beeping. He looked up and saw a map of Neal's radius, a box in the middle of it that said SIGNAL LOST.

"Dammit," Peter cursed as Diana walked in.

"Caffrey just went offline," she said.

"I can see that," he snapped, leaning forward in the chair to press a few things on his keyboard.

_Of course he would run. Of __**course **__he would. _He thought angrily, though also a little hurt. He just needed to figure out where he was now so that he could drag him back in chains. And possibly beat his ass.

Five minutes later, however, anger was replaced with worry as he counted out the blips and pauses in the data that had been recorded when the anklet was cut. He was eternally grateful he had memorized Morse code in college…

_4 H-O-U-S-E_

"4 house"? What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

"Okay, I need brainstorming going on here!" Peter called as he stepped out above the bullpen. The agents below turned to pay attention to the senior agent. "Neal Caffrey's anklet was cut and he left a Morse code message that says '4 house'. Any ideas what that means?"

"Four houses…"

"To house four people…"

"Four in a house…"

"House of four…"

Several agents tossed around ideas in the next several minutes, but none made sense to Peter, and he kept shaking his head.

"Four-year house, four-year lease on house," Jones said.

"House at four years," Diana added.

_Yes._

"Stop," Peter ordered. "That's it. Jones, I need you to look up the house Caffrey was registered as living in when he was four years old. I think that's where his father is taking him."

**~WC~**

**Hm…very cryptic, I know, and maybe it wouldn't have taken so fast and easy a time to figure out the clue as it did in here, but hey! That's why it's just fiction :) Hope you guys are enjoying the suspense…please review!**


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